


crush

by hoegeta



Series: yes, professor [2]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Shameless Smut, Suicide, Teacher-Student Relationship, With glasses, professor cloud strife, this story is a mess, what else do i tag this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoegeta/pseuds/hoegeta
Summary: Tifa's literature professor is giving her a bit of trouble.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Series: yes, professor [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066175
Comments: 270
Kudos: 392





	1. one thousand out of ten

**Author's Note:**

> professor strife broke twitter for few days so i thought it was only right to write a longer story about him 
> 
> special thanks to mayonaka no ame for betaing this and starting this whole professor strife trend and also for being wonderful. also special thanks to my loves caly and roxe for helping me with ideas because a bitch be struggling. and finally thank you to everyone who read my fic "extra credit" and created fanart about it you guys are the best <3 i hope you all enjoy more of professor strife and the fleshing out of his relationship with tifa hehe >:)
> 
> warnings: smut, future references to depression, future professor-student consensual adult relationship so if that dynamic bothers you please do not read!!!

Tifa’s senses are tingling.

“Teef,” Jessie calls, and her voice is laced in a tinge of urgency, her fingers woven around Tifa’s upper arm. “Hot guy. _Very_ hot. Thirteen out of ten. To your right.”

Tifa looks towards her right, her hand stuffing a towel into a shot glass. She tries to act casual, to search through the blurred corners of her gaze, scanning the moving heads and bustling bodies. And then the mentioned thirteen-out-of-ten hot guy comes into view, and she feels something in her chest begin to whirl, to flip over as if a storm has come over her heart, knock the wind out of her like she’s been punched in the gut.

Wow. _Wow_ Jessie was wrong. He’s more of a thousand out of ten, really.

“Oh my god.” And when Tifa gets like this, she doesn’t even care that she’s ogling. She’s attracted to him, and she won’t be shy. She’ll be shameless about it, because frankly, she wants him.

Very, _v_ _ery_ badly. God, she’s a mess.

“His hair’s a little weird, though,” Jessie whispers. She’s wiping down the counter as the Hot Guy slides into a stool not too far from the bartenders, turning his head to chat with a black-haired man seated to his left. Tifa watches him, her eyes following the sharp cut of his jaw, traveling down into the muscles of his neck, disappearing into the wrinkled collar of his button down. Yeah, maybe his hair is a little untamed, wild spikes sticking up at odd angles, a pale, ghostly yellow as the overhead lights paint them. But everything else is glorious. Incredible. Amazing. A thousand out of ten.

Tifa stares at his arms, how his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, the faint, protruding veins, like highways of blue. His muscles ripple through the silk of the shirt. God. _God._ Suddenly, she feels hot, stuffed as if she’s covered in fires. She’s been toweling the same shot glass for ten minutes now.

He reaches into one of his pants’ pockets, takes out a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, perches them on his nose. And Tifa nearly has a heart attack.

“Glasses!” Jessie shrieks, jostling Tifa by the shoulder. “Glasses, _glasses_!”

“I know!” Tifa yells back. It’s maybe a million times hotter now, and she’s sweating, color burned into the tips of her ears. _Glasses_. The cold blue of his eyes is faint, blurred by the glass of the lens, but then, he looks at her, and she feels pierced. Like her soul is bare before him. Like he’s stripping her of all her defenses.

She follows that cold blue of his eyes, like a magnet, like ice crawling down her spine.

“Go, girl!” Jessie hollers. “Get ‘im!”

“Are you encouraging Tifa to flirt on the job again?” Biggs’ voice flutters into Tifa’s ears, and he sounds exasperated. 

“Of course I am!” Jessie counters. “Flirting with hot guys is the best part about working here!”

“As your boyfriend, that sentence made me extremely sad.”

“Oh, shush. You know you’re the only one for me! And plus, flirting gets us a lot more tips!”

She isn’t wrong about that.

Tifa doesn’t care to hear more of the lovers’ quarrel. She shimmies closer to the Hot Guy, putting the shot glass away and hanging the damp towel on the rack near her. His eyes follow her movements, and he looks at her with a plain expression. His features are soft, but his frown is hard, creased deeply into his lips. His face is molded to perfection, as if he wasn’t born but manufactured. She wonders how a human being can be so lovely.

“Welcome,” she greets, and she places her palms on the bar, the steel cold against her. She leans a bit forward, thankful that past-her decided to wear a lower-cut shirt today. His eyes travel down, right where she wants them to go, before flickering right back up to her face. “What’ll it be?”

“A Cosmo Canyon,” he answers, and even his voice is fluid, a deep husk that rumbles through her bones. She leans in a bit closer to hear him over the bustle and chatter behind him. “It’s your best drink, isn’t it?”

She nods. “The most popular.” She grabs her shaker, bowl of ice, and liquors, and she feels his gaze following her every movement, her nerves sizzling under his watch. “Lucky for you, I make the best one here.”

“Oh?” He places his elbow on the bar, tucks his chin into his propped palm. “Do you? I guess I am lucky.”

_Do you want to get even luckier tonight?_

The words almost spill past her lips. Almost. Luckily, she’s not that drunk. Not yet, at least. It’s hard not to get drunk during her shifts.

She makes the Cosmo Canyon, the red of it brilliant, sparkling in her hands. She slides it over to him, and he catches it easily, swirls it a bit before bringing the glass to his lips. He takes a sip, and she doesn’t care that she’s blatantly watching the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. It’s good. It’s a very good image.

“Well?” she asks, sings the word a bit. “How is it?”

“Good,” he answers. “Could be better, though.”

Oh. _Oh._ He’s now dropped to a nine hundred ninety-nine out of ten.

He’s still unbelievably hot, though.

“Excuse me?” She crosses her arms. “I’d like to see you come back here and make a better one.”

“I think I’d enjoy it more if the pretty bartender was having one with me.”

Oh. _Oh_. Okay. Tifa pretends like her heart isn’t stuttering to a stop in her chest, pretends like her face isn’t blazing as red as a tomato right now.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

She makes herself a Cosmo Canyon, brings it to life within her shaker, adds a bit more simple syrup because she likes her drinks sweet. She pours it into a glass, lifts it up and towards him.

“Cheers!”

He lifts his own glass, clinks the rim of it against hers, and there’s a little quirk at the edge of his mouth, barely-there and painted in dark light. And Tifa feels herself swooning, smitten entirely by him and the ice of his eyes. And something clenches in her core, her stomach flipping about, heat gathering and coursing down her limbs. When’s the last time she had sex?

(Too long ago, she realizes sullenly.)

She tips her head back, takes in half of the Cosmo Canyon, watches him through her lashes as he drinks his own. And maybe she’s crazy, but there’s something there, palpable in the space between them, a tension so thick she can’t even swallow it. He finishes his Cosmo Canyon, sets his empty glass in front of him. Tifa finishes her own, liking the pleasant sizzle that overtakes her throat, the fire that bubbles in her belly. She’s not drunk, not yet, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t tipsy.

He points at her, and she’s a bit confused, looks down at her chest and finds nothing out of the ordinary. She looks back at him, and he touches the tip of his finger to the corner of his own mouth.

“Here,” he says. “Lemon.”

“Oh!”

Tifa doesn’t feel like there’s any stray lemon stuck to her mouth, but she searches anyway, taps her fingertips around the area, since she did run a lemon wedge on the rim of her glass, as is usual for the Cosmo Canyon. She finds nothing, however.

And then, he stretches his arm towards her, his thumb a shocking cold against her cheek as he swipes at her mouth, over her bottom lip and then the piece of lemon stuck to her cheek. He brings his thumb to his own mouth, his lips sucking at the lemon piece.

Tifa watches him, her vision getting hazy.

_Oh my god oh my god oh my god._

She’d like that mouth between her legs. Right now.

“Don’t _do_ that,” she all but whines, her voice getting higher, strained. He quirks his head, quirks his eyebrow, quirks his lips upward.

“Do what?”

Tifa grips the edge of the bar, feeling trapped by his gaze. 

“Uh...” someone pipes, and Tifa looks to the side, at the black-haired man who’d been chatting with the Hot Guy a few minutes before. “Are you guys gonna, like, get a room, or do I have to keep suffering through this?”

With the way Tifa’s feeling right now, like she’s in lava, like something is blooming into a storm within her core, like she can’t possibly even bear to look away from ice eyes, yeah, she thinks they’re going to have to get a room.

She dips forward, her lips close to his ear, and she very nearly falls over when she finds a silver stud pierced into the lobe.

“There’s a room in the back.”

“You’re on the clock, Miss Bartender,” he teases.

Right. She’s supposed to be working.

“Biggs!” she shrieks at the top of her lungs. The mentioned man jerks in surprise. “I’m taking my break!”

“You took your break already!” Biggs yells back.

“I’m taking another one!”

“Hell yeah!” Jessie shouts in glee. “Go get your nut!”

Oh, Tifa plans on it.

Hot Guy slides out of his stool, and she nearly bolts after him, wiping away stray hairs from her forehead. Her fingertips are prickling, excitement bubbling in her chest. It’s been _way_ too long. And he’s a thousand out of ten.

She’s been wanting him to put his hands on her ever since he walked into the bar.

There’s a storage closet in the back that Barret doesn’t really use anymore, and Jessie and Biggs use it often for their own little escapades. Tifa leads the Hot Guy there, takes his hand and drags him through the door, shuts it securely behind her before she’s pinned against it, palms swiping up and down her torso.

 _Yes_ . Yes, yes, yes, _yes_.

His lips are cold, much like his hands and eyes are. She feels the chill of his fingers through the thin satin of her shirt, searing at her flaring skin. He kisses her softly at first, just a touch, and she gets greedy, tilting her head and pulling him as close as he’ll go. She breaks the firm seal of his lips, lets her tongue get in there and roam, and he tastes nice, like lemons, bitter like the alcohol, but so, sickeningly sweet she feels heady with it, like she’s drugged. His tongue curls with hers, his teeth coming to gnaw at her bottom lip, and she groans, hard and visceral in her throat.

Heat pools at the apex of her thighs, an incessant hunger that grates at all her nerves. He’s close, but not close enough. His hands wander, up her back and around to cup her breasts through her bra, and she starts keening, pleasure flickering down her veins.

“ _Yes_ ,” she gasps. “More. Touch me more. _Please_.”

She opens her eyes just in time to catch the pleased smirk hanging on his mouth.

“So needy.”

She frowns. “Shut up. It’s your fault.”

He doesn’t deny that.

His hands leave her breasts and instead go to her skirt, hiking it high on her hips. She rushes to get her stockings off, fights with them as she brings them down her legs, and he helps her, gets on his knees and throws the stockings away. His fingers go for her panties next, poking at the soaked scrap of fabric between her thighs, and she mewls, slumping against the door.

“Touch me,” she very nearly begs. It should be shameful, how wet she’s gotten for him when he’s barely even touched her. “ _Pl_ _ease_.”

He slides her panties down her legs, then digs his fingers into her thigh, hiking it up and on his shoulder, and she rests her foot against a shelf behind him, opens herself up for him as much as she can like this.

The first flick of his tongue on her clit nearly makes her fall over.

“Yes,” she moans, fisting her hand into his hair. “Yes, yes, _yes_ , I love you, _oh my god_."

She feels him chuckle against her, husk that vibrates through her entire body.

His licks are slow at first, tentative and testing, and Tifa impatiently wiggles her hips into him. She looks down, and even through the fogged lens of his glasses, she can’t take the striking blue of his eyes, piercing right through her while his face is buried between her thighs. She looks away, suddenly feeling abashed.

“Look at me,” he orders, and she nearly goes manic when he drops a little kiss onto her clit. “Don’t get shy now.”

She wants to punch him.

“Shut _up_.”

He licks at her clit, brings his lips around it to suck, and she holds onto his hair for dear life, the leg that’s on his shoulder beginning to tremble. It feels good, so, so good, and she almost can’t handle it, the noises, him sucking at her so lewdly, her arousal and his spit crawling down her thigh and his chin. She brings him in closer, as close as he’ll go, and he flattens his tongue against her.

“Ride my face,” he says, the ice of his eyes holding her hostage, and she mewls, her toes curling against the floor. She grips his hair and rolls her hips into his mouth, rubs her clit against the flat of his tongue, and she feels that familiar tight coil begin to unravel in the core of her being. Tifa’s peak crashes over her without warning, seizes her entire body until she’s shuddering, choking on her moans, colors splashing all over her eyes as her brain melts to mush. He sucks on her clit even as she’s falling from the high, and she recoils from him, her body going limp, her chest heaving for breath.

“Oh my god,” she says, stares at the wall for a bit as she gathers herself. “Oh my god. Oh my _god_.”

He drops a few lingering kisses on her inner thigh before getting up, coming to catch her mouth with his. This kiss is messy, open-mouthed and he steals all the breath from her. He tastes like her, his mouth wet with her, and she can’t get enough of it, kisses him harder and deeper like she’s addicted.

Her hand slides down his abdomen, towards the hardness in the front of his pants. She only gets the lightest of touches in before his fingers come to wrap around her wrist, halting her.

“No,” he says, and his tone is hard, won’t be argued with. Tifa frowns, feeling devastated.

“I wanna touch you.” 

“Not now,” he says. “Get back to work, Miss Bartender.”

One more kiss on her lips and he’s gone, out the door and leaving her behind like the mess she is. Tifa wants to yell, frustration coming to a rolling boil in her chest. She got her release, a mind-numbing one at that, and yet, she still feels tense, incomplete, empty and wanting. 

She still wants him. So much it’s unbearable. Or maybe that’s the Cosmo Canyon she had talking. She’s not sure.

But she does know that because he left her like this, he’s dropped back to a nine hundred and ninety-nine out of ten.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa’s starting to think she won’t ever see Hot Guy again.

Before he’d left her, he’d said “not now.” And in her mind, that was a promise for more later. That something would happen later, at a better time and place, and she’d be able to touch him to her heart’s content, to please him the way he pleased her. And in that moment, bathing in the heady aftermath of her release, that was all she wanted. Maybe to get on her knees for him like he did for her. Maybe to let him pin her against the door and let him have his way with her.

God. Her insides are on fire just thinking about it. She’s as sober as she can be. And she still wants him. The human body is a scam.

When she’d seen him, she’d been on break from school, and she’d been able to work more often at the bar. But now, September is here, and with it is a summer sun that won’t quit, a semester that starts no matter what. It’s the beginning of her third year in college, and she’s less than enthused. And now, with classes and homework taking up the majority of her time, Barret allows her to work only once a week on Saturday nights.

Yeah. She’s probably never going to see Hot Guy ever again, and this is a tragedy. A devastating tragedy.

“It’s okay!” Aerith yells, and her voice is loud, sweet, a burst of sunshine within Tifa’s cloudy conscience. “Maybe you’ll see him again! Who knows?!”

Ah, Aerith. The only reason Tifa even is able to survive the semester. She wonders what she’d do without her.

The first morning is fine, she thinks. As fine as the first Monday of the semester can be. Everyone looks much like zombies, slumping about, the energy and life drained from their limbs. Only the freshmen are ready and prepared, their eyes sparkling, their backpacks big and full. They’re easy to pick out in the crowd, the only students who actually maybe want to be here, and Tifa wishes she was them.

Tifa and Aerith’s afternoon lecture is Midgar Literature. They waddle to the literature building together, confused because they end up on the second floor, and the room number they need is 103.

“Uh,” Aerith says, glaring at her schedule, the paper now wrinkled and torn with use. “Where the hell is the first floor?”

Tifa sighs. This is college, unfortunately.

After a lot of loitering around, asking around, and messing around, they finally find their room, with only a couple of minutes to spare. The majority of the seats are filled, and Reno and Rufus, thankfully, have saved them some seats towards the back. The professor is not yet here.

“Took ya long enough,” Reno says as a greeting.

Tifa frowns, plopping into her seat. “Shut up. We’re still on time.”

“You’re gonna be late every day from now on,” Aerith argues. Reno scoffs.

“You wanna bet on it, Gainsborough?”

“Like we bet on you and Elena last week? How did that end up, Sinclair?”

That shuts him up. Tifa snorts. Reno and Elena are as volatile as a couple can get. 

Five minutes pass, and the professor still hasn’t come. Tifa’s glad to talk to Reno and Rufus about what they’ve been up to lately, as she hasn’t seen them in a while. Ten minutes later, the conversation turns sour, and Aerith and Reno are, again, yelling.

“Me and Elena are way kinkier than you and Zack!”

“I don’t wanna have to pull out my sexts, Sinclair!”

Aerith actually takes her smartphone out of her bag. Tifa looks away quickly, turns to Rufus.

“Aerith’s really kinky,” she whispers. 

“I know,” Rufus says simply.

Fifteen minutes later, just before the first student leaves after he’s decided he’s had enough of waiting, the door to the lecture hall opens, and the professor jogs in, his bag flailing behind him.

“Sorry, everyone. I got caught in some tra—”

He stops. And Tifa goes still in her seat, ice down her spine, until she’s completely frozen over, her jaw slack and hitting the floor.

Unruly blond hair. Striking blue eyes. Thick-rimmed glasses. A face molded to perfection, so lovely it aches.

That very face had been buried between her legs a mere week before.

Oh my god.

 _Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god_.

Fuck.

He shakes himself out of his shock, gathers his wits, clears his throat a bit. He rests his bag on his desk, pushes the rim of his glasses high onto the bridge of his nose. Maybe the ceiling lights are playing tricks on her, but there may be a dusting of red on the tops of his cheeks.

And he avoids looking in Tifa’s direction like his fucking life depends on it.

“I got caught in traffic,” he continues. “Sorry about that. I’m Cloud Strife, and I’ll be your professor for Midgar Literature this semester.”

Tifa holds her head in her hands, and it very well feels like her life is falling apart before her.

He’s her professor. Her fucking professor. She made out with her professor. Her professor gave her _head._

This is truly devastating.

“Hey, Teef,” Aerith murmurs close to Tifa’s ear. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

Oh, Aerith doesn’t know the fucking half of it.

(It would have been better if she never saw him again.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3


	2. two-fifty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i love you all
> 
> unbetaed and unedited bc i like living life on the edge

Tifa spends the next half an hour fretting silently.

Frankly, she doesn’t really care about a single word Hot Guy一or Professor Strife, rather一says. Professor _Strife_. She never did catch his name that night, so she wasn’t able to make the connection through the name written on her class schedule. He passes out the syllabus, and still, he refuses to look at Tifa, and she understands wholly. She, too, avoids his stare, keeping her eyes trained on the paper in front of her. He’s talking about what they’ll be doing during the semester: reading novels, writing papers, taking exams. The usual.

They’re going to be reading _Jenova_ by Sephiroth, _Loveless_ by Genesis Rhapsodos, and _The Ancients_ by Ifalna Gast. Fucking boring, if you ask Tifa.

He talks about how he’s a fair grader, how he’s not here to make anyone’s life hard, how he will appreciate it if they all put the correct effort into the course. He sits on the desk, his hands curled over the edge, and she can’t help but let her mind wander and wander until she’s spiraling into a heated pit, until she’s bursting from the inside out. He’d been so different at the bar. He’d been...a human being. Out for a drink with a friend. That’s all.

And then, his tongue ended up down her throat, his hands on her body, his mouth between her thighs. And she lets out a slow, staggered breath, her heartbeat catching speed in her chest, like a storm is whirling.

This is fucking _horrible_.

The eyes. She thinks they are the worst part. Striking. Piercing. Blindingly beautiful. _God_.

“All right,” he says, flipping the syllabus back to the first page and setting it aside, onto his folder. His hands go to roll the sleeves of his button-down up to his elbows, and she, quite nearly, has a stroke. “Does anyone have any questions for me?”

Many hands go up. Some students don’t even wait for their turn to speak.

“Is your name actually Cloud?”

“How much do you bench?”

“Are you single?!”

Professor Strife lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Yes, two-fifty, and yes.”

Murmurs flirt about the students, bouncing off the desks, and Reno, in shock, turns to Aerith and Tifa.

“Two-fifty?!” he wails. “That’s more than me! How the fuck?!”

Tifa looks at the professor’s arms, the muscle carved-out within the cotton of his shirt, the veins gliding down his arms like streaks of blue paint before disappearing into his fingers. Yeah, of course he fucking benches two-fifty.

(She wants those strong arms to pin her against a fucking wall. Or a table. Or even a car hood. She’s not picky.)

“I am single,” the professor says, his tone pointed. “But I don’t plan on dating any of you. So, don’t get excited.”

Many disgruntled noises of disappointment echo around the room. Tifa groans quietly under her breath. Why does that last sentence feel like it was for her?

Professor Strife ends the class by taking attendance. He mentions that when he was in college, he hated when professors started teaching on the first day, so he wants to cut his students some slack. He goes down the roster, following the names with the tip of his pen, calling them out one by one.

“Tifa Lockhart.”

Slowly, meekly, Tifa raises her hand. The professor looks at her, the widening of his eyes almost panicked, before he immediately looks away.

This is unbearable. Absolutely unbearable. Should she drop this course?

After attendance, Professor Strife dismisses the students. Aerith, Reno, and Rufus are discussing where they should go to eat, and Tifa lifts herself from the chair, gathering her bag and notebook.

“You guys go ahead,” she tells her friends. “I have to talk to the professor.”

“Already?” Reno scrunches his nose. “What could you possibly need to talk to him about?”

Oh, wouldn’t he like to know…

“I have to ask him something about the syllabus.”

“I can wait for you,” Aerith says, her smile pretty and golden like the sun. Tifa feels the color drain her face.

“No! That’s fine! You guys go!”

Aerith looks a bit puzzled, a bit suspicious, but she, thankfully, does not press. Tifa lingers until everyone except the professor is out of the room. He’s scrolling away on his smartphone, tapping at the screen, before he looks up and at her.

A noise spills out of his throat, one that she can only describe as a petrified squeak.

“Hi, _Professor_.”

He clears his throat, sets his phone onto his desk, his gaze fleeing hers.

“Miss Lockhart, was it?”

“Miss _Bartender_.”

_Get back to work, Miss Bartender._

Those words cause a wave of warmth to flow all down her body. He’d felt like a completely different person then.

“I don’t recall,” he says simply, two of his fingers adjusting his glasses. Tifa walks a bit closer, leans her palm on his desk.

“You don’t remember what happened a week ago?” she asks, her voice inflating towards the end in irritation. She’s irritated that things ended up like this. Why couldn’t he have just stayed as a beautiful stranger at the bar? “You got memory loss, or something?”

“Perhaps,” he says. He gets up from his chair, begins gathering his things together, stuffs his folder into his bag. “If that’ll be all, Miss Lockhart, I have to get going now.”

“Really?” Her shoulders fall, and she feels deflated, defeated. “You’re just going to avoid me?”

“Look,” he says, and his tone gets hard, bitten around the edges, and her eyes go a bit wide, her brows arching into her fringe. Maybe he isn’t so different from the Hot Guy at the bar. “I think we should both just forget what happened. Put it past us. If you’re going to be in my class, we have to be professional.”

Professional. No, Tifa doesn’t think that’s possible when she’s staring at his mouth as he talks, remembering how soft it’d felt against her skin. It’s very hard to be _professional_.

Maybe she really does need to drop the class…

**.**

**.**

**.**

“No! You can’t drop Midgar Literature!”

Ah fuck.

“Why do you want to drop it?!” Aerith looks like she wants to cry. “You need an English course for your major, and I’ve wanted to take Midgar Literature with Strife for so long! He’s great!”

 _Great_ is probably not the term Tifa would use to describe him.

“Yeah, Teef, he seems all right,” Reno says over a mouthful of turkey sandwich. “Except for the fact that he can bench more than me. I still can’t believe it.”

“I can,” Rufus pipes, his voice bland, cold. “Have you seen your twig arms?”

Reno’s expression curls into one of rage. “You wanna go, Shinra?!”

“I bench more than you, too,” Rufus says. “You don’t stand a chance.”

Reno actually goes to get up, before Aerith pulls him back down.

“No fighting in the school cafe!”

Tifa rolls her eyes. This, unfortunately, is a regular occurrence.

“Anyways,” Aerith says, brushing off the boys’ antics. “Seriously, Teef, why do you suddenly wanna drop it? The class doesn’t seem like it’ll be bad. Just try it out!”

 _Try it out_. Tifa sighs, picking at a stray crouton in her salad with her fork. Chatter swirls within her ears like soft, candlelit melodies, and she looks around, thinking hard, her mind wandering and wandering, and she tries to fight the thoughts, to put that night past her like the professor wanted.

But that’s very, _very_ difficult when he gave her as good of an orgasm as he did.

Fuck.

She doesn’t think she’s going to survive this semester.

**.**

**.**

**.**

The next class is Thursday afternoon. Today, they start reading the novel _Jenova_. It is long, grueling, painfully abstract and convoluted with its wording, and Tifa doesn’t even understand what’s happening most of the time. Through Aerith’s quick, hushed hints, Tifa has gathered that the main protagonist is the son of Jenova, the alien entity who came to Gaia and wiped out the human population. He then goes on a journey around the ruined Gaia, trying to find the last couple of humans who survived Jenova’s attack.

Seems interesting enough. Tifa would enjoy it more if she knew what half the fucking words meant. Seriously, why does this Sephiroth have to be so unnecessarily flowery and metaphorical with his writing? 

Tifa’s attention starts wavering twenty minutes into the novel. Professor Strife will have a student read a couple of paragraphs before stopping to analyze what they just went through. It’s quite painful, Tifa thinks, especially since there’s a thick tension woven into the air between her and the professor, so thick she finds it to be weighing down her chest. He, still, will not even look her way, and she understands why. But still, it’s annoying. Everything is annoying.

She can’t put that night past her. Not when she’s continuously staring at his strong, two-fifty-benching arms. Today, his button-down is made of blue silk so tight his muscles are rippling, nearly tearing through the fabric. His hair is especially unruly and tousled, sunlight bathed into his eyes as he holds _Jenova_ open and paces about the room. And Tifa’s entranced by him, soaks every one of his movements into the dura mater of her brain, absorbs all that he is.

Beautiful. Achingly so. And it’s fucking annoying, how attracted she still is to him, how she still clings to that empty promise he left her with in that closet, her skirt hitched to her hips and her legs spread as she struggled to catch her breath. God. Fuck. _Fuck_.

If it wasn’t for Aerith, Tifa would have dropped this class the very first day.

“Miss Lockhart.”

The professor’s voice startles her, brings her to the surface. Tifa blinks, sitting up.

“Next paragraph, please.”

“Oh,” she squeaks, looking down at the gibberish novel. She realizes that she was absolutely not paying attention, and she has no idea where they left off. “Uh…”

“Right here,” Aerith whispers, ever the helpful best friend, the tip of her finger pointing at the paragraph at which Tifa needs to start. Tifa leans over to look, then searches for the same paragraph on her page. Of course, she doesn’t find it. “Start at, ‘And I stepped through the marshes…’”

Yeah, Tifa can’t fucking find it.

“You weren’t keeping up with us, were you, Miss Lockhart?”

Those eyes. Ice down her spine. Breaking past all her defenses. _Now_ he chooses to look at her?

“Um—”

“Miss Gainsborough,” Professor Strife calls. “Help your friend out. Read for us.”

“Okay!” Aerith yelps.

She begins to read, but of course, Tifa can’t focus on the novel. _Help your friend out_ . _You weren’t keeping up with us_. Rage starts to bubble in her core, and she tries her best to swallow it away, but it won’t budge. Is he picking on her? Who does he think he is? What happened to being a professor who doesn’t like to make his students’ lives hard? Why did he have to single her out like that?

Acting _professional_? He sure fucking isn’t. Tifa’s annoyed. Unbearably so.

The class drags on for what feels like centuries. Professor Strife assigns homework on the chapters they read together. Great. Fucking great. Tifa sure as hell will not be reading the chapters for herself, so she’ll just get summaries online. Or she’ll ask Aerith to explain it to her. It’s likely that Reno will need Aerith’s assistance as well, because he’d looked just as confused as Tifa did when they were reading. Seriously, fuck Sephiroth.

And fuck Professor Strife for being awful.

“I hate him,” Tifa grumbles as she gets up from her chair. Aerith frowns. 

“Yeah. Sorry, sweetie. We can do the homework together if that’d make you feel better.”

Aerith always knows exactly what to say. Tifa really doesn’t know what she’d do without her.

**.**

**.**

**.**

On the one day a week Tifa actually does get to work, the bar is always packed to the absolute brim. Bodies piled atop bodies, sharing breath and sweat, gliding together and drowning within the ambience and no one ever stops to resurface for air. Tifa likes the music pulsing through her sternum, likes the coos of awe she gets when she shows them her best, flashiest bartender moves, likes the rush, likes the chaos that pushes her thoughts away just for a little while, and she’s empty, static, free maybe. Peaceful with alcohol whirring through her system and school done with until Monday.

(She likes the male attention, too. She won’t lie. The tips are _fabulous_.)

While Tifa’s shaking up a Gongaga Special, Jessie bumbles over, a teasing smile carved into her lips.

“So?” she sings, elbowing Tifa in the side. “How’s Mister Hot Guy?”

Tifa chokes on her own spit.

“You never told me what you guys did back there!” Jessie whines. “Come on! Tell me! Did you blow him? Did he fuck you? How big is his dick?!”

Tifa coughs violently into the inside of her elbow. She very well feels like she’s been licked by fire.

“I...didn’t _see_ his dick,” she grinds out. Or, well, she didn’t _get_ to see it. She wanted to. She really did. “He, uh, gave me head...”

And a _spectacular_ orgasm, but she won’t mention that.

“Yes!” Jessie’s glee is palpable. “When are you seeing him again?!”

Tifa slides the Gongaga Special towards a happy customer. “I’m not.”

And Jessie’s glee falls from her face, a crestfallen frown taking its place. “What?! Why?! You guys were getting along so well!”

Yeah, well, now they don’t get along. Now he’s her fucking professor, and he’s fucking annoying. But Tifa can’t bear the embarrassment of knowing that her professor gave her head, so she keeps his fact hidden. From her friends, from Jessie especially.

Jessie would never, ever let her live it down.

“I see him at school,” Tifa answers vaguely. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the complete truth either. “He’s annoying.”

“He’s a student at your university?”

Tifa gulps.

“Something like that.”

Thankfully, the topic is dropped when their attention is swallowed by the scraping of steel against tile. Two guys slide into vacant stools in front of Tifa, and she turns to them, their faces drenched in bouncing lights, dark in the shadows but she can make out their features well enough. She’s seen them before. Somewhere. Where…

“Yo, Lockhart!” one of them yells obnoxiously. “You work here?!”

“Yes…” And she still doesn’t know who they are or why they know her last name. Maybe the alcohol is dulling her senses a bit too much. “And you are?”

“We’re in your Midgar Literature class.”

Oh. Oh, right. Midgar Literature. Nathan and…

“Jason,” one of them replies.

Right. Nathan and Jason. Such forgettable names and faces. They shouldn’t blame Tifa for not knowing who they are.

They order hard vodkas, like the tough men they think they are, and Tifa provides, sliding their glasses over to them. And their eyes are on her. Glued to her skin, following each and every single one of her moves, and normally, she wouldn’t mind male customers looking at her like this. It’d mean she’d get a good tip from them, and a struggling, college student needs a good tip.

But these guys. She doesn’t like their stares. They’re not the same as a certain cold, ice stare. She likes Professor Strife’s eyes when they’re absorbed in her, and she hates to admit it.

“What’re you doing after work?” Nathan asks. Tifa wipes down a shot glass.

“Sleeping,” she replies simply. She gets off at three in the morning. Yeah, she’s going to go home and fucking sleep. 

“Damn,” Jason says, clicking his tongue. “We wanted to work on the Midgar Literature homework with you.”

Through the very corner of her gaze, Tifa catches Jessie’s stare, the way she struggles to bite back a laugh.

“In the middle of the night?” Tifa asks, and her voice inflates towards the end in disbelief. “You wanna do homework with me in the middle of the night?”

If this is their attempt at flirting, it’s painfully sad.

Jason turns his head to snicker. Nathan leans forward, looks at Tifa.

“We can do other things.”

Tifa sighs, long and hard. She’s not drunk enough for this.

“No. Goodbye. Biggs!”

At the call of his name, Biggs comes running, and yeah, he’s not the biggest or burliest guy around, but he’s strong and caring and very passionate about respecting women. Whenever Tifa or Jessie feel uncomfortable around a customer, he comes to the rescue.

Tifa goes to the back, into the kitchen, and she thinks. Their attempt at flirting was so lame she kind of wants to throw up. Does that work on the girls at the frat parties? If so, that fact saddens her, because those girls deserve better than that.

They deserve someone like Mister Hot Guy, whose words coiled through her so viscerally she took him to a back room and let him work his tongue between her legs. And she hates it, hates how she’s still thinking of him in that way when he’s her professor. Her educator. Her superior. Their relationship is supposed to be professional. Nothing but professional.

The way he looked at her, his eyes tearing down all her defenses. The swipe of his thumb at the lemon piece. _I’d like it even better if the pretty bartender was having one with me._

_Look at me. Don’t get shy now._

God. Fuck. Fucking shit. _Fuck._ _Shit._

Tifa whimpers, holds her head in her hands, and she very well wants to cry.

He’s her professor. He annoys the everloving hell out of her. And yet, she still thinks of him like this. She still wants him. She really, _really_ wants him.

She’s not drunk enough for this.

**.**

**.**

**.**

“I’m quite disappointed in you, Miss Lockhart.”

Tifa’s disappointed in herself. _Jenova_ is a ludicrous novel full of fluff and fancy words and symbolism she couldn’t even hope to understand. Aerith tried her best, but nothing ever registered into Tifa’s brain, came in one ear and soared right out the other. She knew she’d do poorly on this exam, but she didn’t think she’d do _that_ poorly.

She doesn’t think she answered even a single question correctly. God, how is she going to fix her grade point average after this?

Professor Strife sits at his desk, shuffling through the exam papers, his fingers thin and lithe. He fixes his glasses, pushes them higher onto the bridge of his nose. Tifa walks a bit closer, her fingers prickling, anxiety whirling like storms within her chest.

“Is there anything I can do to help my grade? Extra credit, maybe?”

Professor Strife looks at her, swallows her with the cool ice of his stare, and Tifa’s breath hitches in her throat.

“There is _something_ you can do.”

And his hands are on her, and Tifa lets him, allows him all the access he wants. He pulls her close, kisses her feverishly, like he’s a man starved, his tongue coming to break the seal of her lips. He roams her mouth, his palms roaming her torso, coming to cup her breasts through her shirt, and Tifa gasps into him, her nipples pebbling over under his touch. 

She wants more. So, so much more. Something begins to flip in her abdomen, clench and clench until her thighs are trembling, until she feels her warmth leak through her panties. She wants him so bad it’s painful, eats at all her senses until she’s consumed in him, him, him.

He lets go, trails his lips down the curve of her jaw, down the column of her neck until he’s suckling marks into her shoulder, sinking his teeth into the skin. She gnaws at her lip, likes how bruised and sore it feels from his kisses.

“Professor,” she very nearly whines, her hands clinging to his arms. Two-fifty. He benches two-fifty, and she feels those two-fifty muscles ripple under her fingers. “ _Ple_ _ase_.”

“What do you say?” His voice is low, bursts out of his lungs in deep, husked growls, and it skitters down her spine, settles right into her core. 

“Please, sir. I want it.”

His hand curls into her hair, pulls her head up until she’s looking at him and nothing else. 

“Good girl.”

There isn’t much time to undress. Professor Strife is rushed, needy as he pushes her skirt up until it’s bunched around her waist. He tears her panties down her legs, stuffs them into his pocket, and she doesn’t complain. She’ll like walking around campus bare under her skirt, knowing that her panties are in his possession. And he’ll like it, too. She knows he will.

He turns her around, bends her over his desk, presses her down into the wood. Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes._ _God_ , this is all she’s wanted.

“Slut,” he growls, his fingertips biting marks into her thighs, walking up until he’s cupping her ass, spreading her wide for him, and her toes curl in her shoes, the pleasure, the anticipation pooling, flooding over until she’s floundering, wiggling and begging for more of him. “You failed on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted this.”

She hears the clink of his belt buckle, the undoing of his zipper. Yes, yes, _yes_ , this is all she wanted.

“Yes, Professor.”

“What do you say?”

He rubs the head of his cock against her entrance, and she bucks her hips back.

“Yes, sir.”

His hand comes around the back of her neck, holds her firm against the desk as he slides his cock into her, so far he’s buried to the hilt, and Tifa sees stars, feels him rattle through all her bones until he lingers in every single one of her cells.

“You take it so well. Such a good little slut.”

Yes, yes, _yes_ , she’s a good slut only for him.

He pulls all the way out only to slam right back in, and it’s hard, visceral, like he wants to rip her apart. And she _loves_ it, goes manic with it, loves how rough he is, his hand marring bruises into her hip, the grip on the back of her neck getting tighter and tighter. She likes how full he makes her feel, how he rams against her walls at just the right angle, at just the right speed. His hips slap against her ass, and she revels in his low grunts, tumbling past his lips as he begins to lose his control. She looks behind her, looks at him as he begins to fall apart, his hair a matted mess on his forehead, his glasses falling down his nose.

“Fuck, Tifa, you feel so good.”

And he hits her in just the right way, the head of his cock raking against the sweetest spot inside her, and she grips the edge of the desk so hard her skin goes white. Tifa feels something coming, something brewing in the core of her being, flickering down her veins, and she begins to shudder, her walls tightening around him.

“Sir, sir, oh my god, I’m going to comeー”

He drapes his chest over her back, his lips so close to her ear she feels the hot fan of his breath.

“Come for me, Miss Lockhart,” he whispers. “Come all around my cock.”

And Tifa does. She comes, lets all of it go.

And then, she opens her eyes, and she’s not looking at Professor Strife or his lecture hall. She’s looking at the ceiling of her bedroom. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

She’s drunk. She’s drunk after her shift, and that’s the only plausible reason as to why she would ever think it was okay to fantasize about Professor Strife. Barret dropped her home, and she’d felt so tired, wound-up taut like some kind of toy, the stress bled through all of her limbs. And she’d crawled into her bed, and her mind began to wander, spiral and spiral into a blurred haze of unruly, blond hair and cold eyes and eyeglasses.

Professor Strife. God. _God_. 

Tifa struggles to catch her breath. She lies on her pillow, her chest heaving, sweat clinging to every inch of her form. She didn’t even bother to undress, unzipped her pants and dipped her hand into her panties. And she’d touched herself to the thought of him, to the image of him she conjured within her intoxicated brain, his voice hard, his fingertips and teeth in her skin, his cock stretching out her walls.

Her hand slides back between her spread legs, as if she hasn’t just reached her peak and soaked through the fabric of her panties entirely. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Sir,” she breathes, her wet fingers rubbing at her clit, soft circles that make her nails rip into the sheets under her. “Sir, oh god, _please_.”

She’s loud. Shamelessly loud, but it doesn’t matter. No one’s ever home, anyways. She’s always alone.

Tifa comes again, and again, and again, rubs at her clit past the point of her limit, sinks her fingers into herself and works her walls open. And it’s not what she wants, her fingertips against her sweet spot. She wants him, his fingers, his tongue, his cock raking within her walls, hitting her in just the right way, driving her mad as he fucks her on top of his desk.

“Sir, _please_ ,” she gasps. “Fuck me harder.”

She’s a mess. Tifa’s a mess.

She’s not drunk enough for this bullshit.

**.**

**.**

**.**

On Monday, Tifa tries to act casual. It doesn’t work.

She _masturbated_ to him.

Her professor wears the same face and body as the man in her fantasies, the man from the bar weeks ago, but she can’t help but feel like he’s a different person. He’s stoic. Poised. Put together. Holds _Jenova_ open and paces around the room, the sun bouncing off the lens of his glasses in a reflection that sparkles. His voice is calm yet hard, and he discusses Sephiroth’s writing with an elegance polished from time and passion alone. He feels worlds apart from the man who’d recklessly walked into that back closet with her and blew her mind away.

He’s professional, now. He’s her professor, after all. And Tifa feels so shameless, because still, _still_ , she finds herself wanting him. This fucking _sucks_.

They begin the class by going over the homework. On Sunday night, she had chewed Aerith’s ear off while on the phone with her, wailing miserably about how she understands nothing about this fucking novel. Aerith, being the angel she is, tried her best to walk Tifa through the homework, and somehow, Tifa was able to scramble the assignment together.

Professor Strife reads each question aloud, and he lets the students answer. Aerith answers the first question, because she’s Aerith, beautiful and smart and quite the fan of the novel.

“Jenova had no qualms about wiping out the human race,” Aerith explains. “She looked at them as inferior and thought they deserved to die. The narrator is finally beginning to understand this, and he’s finally resenting his mother for being a monster.”

Aerith speaks eloquently, beautifully, and Professor Strife seems very pleased with the response. He hums, nodding his head.

“Very good, Miss Gainsborough. Is there anything else for which the narrator resents Jenova?”

That is _not_ on the homework. Tifa’s been avoiding the professor’s gaze all class, the tension woven deeply into her fingers, but she especially avoids him now, because how the hell is she supposed to answer this question? She’s written almost exactly what Aerith has for the first question.

“Miss Lockhart? Would you like to answer?”

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Tifa hates this guy with all her heart.

“Um,” she stammers, looks at her notebook for any semblance of help.

“This question was not in the assignment,” the professor says, his voice smooth but grating at each of Tifa’s trillion nerves. She huffs out a sigh that rattles the fringe on her forehead.

“I know,” she replies, and she can’t bite away the haughtiness, the irritation. “Uh, well…”

Jenova left her son all alone on their planet in order to exterminate the entire race on another. Sounds like a shitty fucking mother to Tifa.

“She left her child all alone. He probably resents her for being a shitty fucking parent.”

Tifa knows this all too well. Her throat begins to tighten, and she tries to swallow away the lump that hangs on her tongue, choking her. Not now, she thinks. Now’s not the time.

She should be used to it. Being alone.

Professor Strife is quiet for a long while, gives her a stare full of melting ice, and it’s not invasive. It’s not shredding past her defenses. It’s softer. Understanding, maybe. Or perhaps she’s just crazy.

“Language, Miss Lockhart.”

But he’s smiling. It’s a small ghost of a smile, hidden behind the cover of _Jenova_. Tifa feels something flutter in her chest, and she doesn’t like the feeling, like rose petals are flowing down the blood of her veins,

She hates him for being so fucking beautiful.

“Should’ve done the homework with us, bartender.”

“Yeah, but you had to be a prude instead…”

Tifa’s head whips to the side, where the two clowns are sitting. She can’t even remember their names. She doesn’t care to, but she’s suddenly flooded with anger, like lava is coursing through her entire being. Who do they think they are? They’re mad at her for not accepting their horrible excuse at flirting? She goes to retaliate, but someone beats her to it.

Aerith and Reno get up from their chairs, their palms slamming onto their desks.

“The fuck did you say about my Tifa?!” Aerith yells.

“I bench two-fifty!” Reno yells. “I’ll beat your asses!”

“You don’t bench two-fifty!” Aerith yells back. “But that’s okay! You can still kick their asses!”

Rufus hums. “Yeah. We’ll kill you.”

Professor Strife stands at the front of the room, dumbfounded. And Tifa smiles to herself, a soft, delicate warmth coming to soothe the rage in her chest. She’s happy she has her friends. They’re always there for her.

Unlike _someone_ else.

“That’s enough,” the professor finally says. “Miss Gainsborough, Mister Sinclair, please sit down. Also, you two.”

He turns to the two Clowns, doesn’t even bother to call them by their names.

“This is college. You’re adults. If you want to act like children, I’ll kick you out of my class. I don’t want to hear anything like that from you again. Got it?”

He’s just doing his job. Tifa knows that. He’s the professor. He’s supposed to say that.

She hates herself for still being flattered, for the fluttering feeling that still whirls in her chest.

One of the Clowns, like the coward he is, splutters a response.

“Yーyes, sir.”

Tifa jolts, something somersaulting within her abdomen. Fires come to lick at her cheeks.

She hates the word “sir.”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want professor strife and his strong two-fifty benching arms to punch me in the face
> 
> thanks for reading <3


	3. floating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for all ur support and lovely comments! it means the world to me that u guys are enjoying this story despite how much of a mess it is. i love you all <3
> 
> sorry if this sucks and has a lot of errors im tired of existing LMFAO

Tifa doesn’t like days like these.

Days that are solemn. Days that stretch on and on, and it feels like they’re passing her by, like she didn’t live them, like they’ve escaped right from her fingers. Days where she stares at the wall with nothing but silence and the violence of her thoughts in her ears. Tifa doesn’t like days like these.

So, she does what she does best: goes to Aerith. Aerith is in her dorm room, and she said that Zack is here too, and they’d love for Tifa to join them. So Tifa goes to them, drives over to them in the height of the summer sun, parks her car near Aerith’s building. There’s a little bridge Tifa has to cross in order to get to Aerith’s building.

The river is tiny. The water ripples, sloshes with the wind. Tifa wonders if she’d float.

She goes up to Aerith’s room, and her bright, sunlit smile instantly lifts Tifa’s mood. Zack’s hearty laughter also helps. Tifa’s glad she’s here.

Aerith and Zack are doing homework. Tifa kind of doesn’t have the energy to expel on academics, so she lies around, carding her fingers through the yellow feathers of Aerith’s chocobo plushie.

“Oh, Teef! I wanted to ask. Did you ever see the thousand out of ten again?”

Tifa chokes on a cough. Fuck. _Shit_.

“Ooh!” Zack coos. “A thousand out of ten? I gotta know!”

No, he absolutely does _not_.

“He was just…a customer I flirted with at the bar.”

“She did more than just _flirt_.” Aerith giggles prettily behind her palm. “They did things in the back closet.”

Zack is even more interested now, sits up, and looks at Tifa with a wide, face-shattering smile. “What kind of things?! First base?! Second base?!”

Tifa groans at the childish ranking system, and she tosses the chocobo plushie at Zack’s head. He catches it easily, holds it against his chest.

“Third base...”

She wonders why she’s acting bashful now when she was the one who’d led the Hot Guy to the back room. She had no problems spreading her legs for him.

_Don’t get shy now._

Damn it. 

And Tifa misses the way she’d felt that night. Free, uninhibited. Alcohol buzzing through her system, draping a thick fog over her better senses. She’d seen him and his perfect face, fell apart when he’d swiped his thumb across her lip, and she went for him. And she didn’t care, let a stranger’s face between her legs for the sole reason that she wanted him. She wanted him, and that was all.

That night, it was easy not to care. To become a slave to her desires. To not think about logic or consequences. Tifa wants to feel that again. Tifa wants to be numb, to not think, to be free of everything again, just for a little while.

She wants to let go.

But not with her fucking literature professor.

“I’m not gonna see him again,” Tifa says, and she has to believe her own words, no matter how many fantasies she has about him, no matter how much she loves those strong arms and ice eyes. “Although he did know how to flirt. Unlike _some_ people.”

Ahem, the Clowns.

Zack’s face crinkles into something akin to disgust. “Oh god. Aerith told me about those idiots. They’re so gross. Rude always tells me about the shit they do at the frat parties.”

“Don’t worry about them, Tifa!” Aerith pipes. “They’re jerks, and they wish they could have you! You’re amazing!”

A smile unfurls onto Tifa’s lips. Aerith really always knows what to say. Tifa doesn’t know what she’d do without her.

Around an hour later, homework, for Aerith and Zack, takes a backseat, and the three are lounging about Aerith’s room, talking about this and that and everything in between. And Tifa’s so grateful for it, the distraction, Zack’s cackling laugh and Aerith’s tinkling giggle. And the bad thoughts are gone, just for now, and Tifa feels free. Free and less alone.

Reno, Elena, and Rufus bumble into the room not too long after. And it’s a shock, because Elena is hanging off Reno’s elbow, and Reno’s smirk is so proud, so victorious, so mocking. Zack immediately begins to wail.

“Fuck!”

Aerith groans. “No!”

“You owe me ten bucks each, bitches!” Reno holds out his palm “Pay up!”

Zack drops a twenty into Reno’s hand, because, of course, he’ll always pay for his girlfriend. But he isn’t happy about it. Not at all. He’s disgruntled, settling back onto the floor in front of Aerith and Rufus. Reno and Elena join Tifa on the bed, sitting back and leaning against the wall.

“You guys wanna bet again?” Reno asks, Elena snuggling into his shoulder.

“Hell yeah!” Zack shrieks. “I’ll never let you best me!”

Tifa sighs, sharing a glance with Rufus.

“They’re idiots,” Rufus says.

She nods. Yes, yes they are.

While Zack and Reno are arguing about god knows what, Elena leans over to Tifa, her expression calm, pleasant.

“So, Teef, how’ve you been?!”

“I’ve...been,” Tifa answers. It’s the only thing she can think of saying. “How about you? How did Reno apologize this time?”

Elena’s smile is sheepish, pink fluttering over her cheeks like rosy paint.

“He bought me a bag.”

Ah. Yes. Reno and Elena’s relationship is anything but healthy. Tifa guesses it isn’t her place to judge, however. 

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa skipped Midgar Literature yesterday. 

There’s no particular reason as to why. She just didn’t feel like going. She was tired, and the sheets of her bed were so warm and inviting, and she didn’t want to leave them. She thinks students deserve a little break sometimes. Society shouldn’t expect her to be up and functioning all the time. Sometimes, she just needs to rest. Sometimes, she just doesn’t want to look at Professor Strife’s stupid face and listen to his stupid voice and think about how she, so stupidly, wants him.

(Also, her mental health is pretty bad, but she won’t think about it.)

She’s forced to be on campus today, though, because Painting is a class she absolutely cannot miss. She never wants to miss it. Aerith is busy with her own classes today, and she’d been worried about Tifa yesterday. But Tifa had assured her that she was okay; she was just tired.

(It wasn’t a complete lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either.)

Tifa ambles through the art building, the walls of the hallway swallowing, as if they’re coming in and suffocating her. There’s not a single other soul here, and the summer sun is high in the sky, blazing her until her skin sizzles in it. She shouldn’t have worn a long sleeve today.

Someone comes about the corner, walks towards her, his head down, but Tifa knows that head of hair anywhere. Unruly, a pale blond dyed gold in the afternoon sun. He looks up, and she’s greeted with thick-rimmed glasses and the coldest eyes she’s ever seen, raking their way down her spine.

No, no, no, why the _fuck_ is he here?

“Miss Lockhart.”

Tifa stops, cursing her luck.

“Professor Strife.”

She doesn’t like the way he looks at her. Swallowing, suffocating, like the walls are. Tearing down her defenses until she’s bare before him, like he’s looking right through her, can read all her secrets. And she has plenty, her core clenching, something in her abdomen twinging as she remembers the very early, drunken hours of her past Sunday.

_What do you say?_

_Please, sir, I want it._

Tifa lets out a staggered breath, feeling exposed, open, raw.

She hates herself.

“You missed my class yesterday,” he says, crossing his arms, and she’s very distracted by the silver clipped onto his left wrist, the watch that ticks, ticks, ticks. 

“I did,” Tifa answers. She’s not sure what else to say. She doesn’t particularly have a reason. “Sorry.”

“No need,” he says, and his voice is easy, fluid, husked molasses poured into her ears. She likes that voice, likes how it rolls down her spine, likes it when it commands her, holds her at the edge of her control.

_Such a good little slut._

Tifa wants to pass out. Why, why, why is she thinking of all this now?

“It happens,” he says. “Just make sure to get the homework from Miss Gainsborough.”

She nods.

“Will do.”

It seems to be over, the conversation. There’s nothing more to say, and yet there is, the words hanging off the edge of her tongue. He lingers, and she lingers, and she doesn’t know why. His stare is unrelenting, keeping her hostage like her ankles have grown vines into the floor. 

He’d been wearing something similar in her fantasy. A black button down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top few buttons undone, and she looks at the skin unhidden, the curved bone of his clavicle. The silver stud pierced through his ear catches the glow of the sun.

God. Fuck. _Fuck._ Why is he so beautiful? Why can’t she walk away? She’s going to be late for Painting.

It’s maddening, how she can’t let go of that night at the bar. How she can’t be professional. How she can’t view him as only an educator. How much she wants him.

She steps closer, a bit too much. He does not step back.

“Sir.”

She hears his breath hitch in his throat.

“Cloud!”

The voice bounces off the suffocating walls, and Tifa jerks back so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash. Professor Strife looks away, holds his hand in front of his mouth as he looks at the newcomer. His face is framed in black hair, the tips chewing at his chin, his eyes a deep, unsettling burgundy.

“Vincent,” Professor Strife coughs. “I was just coming to talk to you.”

Vincent Valentine. Art history. She’s heard about him from Elena, but she’s never had him. 

Tifa has seen him before, though. He feels familiar.

Professor Valentine looks at Tifa, his expression flat, bored.

“Are you a student here, bartender?”

Bartender. Wait.

 _He was at the bar that night_. Mister Hot Guy’s companion.

Professor Strife looks about ready to pass out.

“I’m _his_ student,” Tifa answers.

Professor Valentine looks at Professor Strife. “You made out with your student?”

The words are bland, spoken in such a flat tone Tifa would think he’s discussing the weather. Professor Strife’s eyes go wide, and maybe she relishes in the brush of light pink on the very tops of his cheeks, relishes in the flustered inflation of his voice.

Cute.

“She wasn’t my student then.”

But now she is, and her feelings for him, the desire, it all _burns_ , ebbs at every single one of her nerves restlessly. It hasn’t changed, even if he is her professor, her educator, her superior.

She hadn’t cared that night. She was free. Uninhibited. Reckless. Maybe she should stop caring. Maybe she should let go, become a slave to her desires. Give in.

The danger. The risk. The thrill. It excites her, just as it did when she abandoned her work duties to let him in between her legs.

Who really cares? She’s alone anyway.

“Right,” Professor Valentine says. “But she is now.”

“I—nothing’s happening between us,” Professor Strife says, and he’s adamant. “We were just discussing how she skipped my class yesterday.”

Nothing’s happening. Hm.

Not if Tifa has anything to say about it.

(She hopes he wasn’t actually serious about not dating his students.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

Professor Strife is wearing suspenders today.

Tifa feels hot, bathed in fire, and it’s not because of the weather. His button down is white, swathed loosely about his form, hanging around his two-fifty benching arms. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and she likes the way he holds _Jenova_ open, his fingers thin and lithe and bony. They’d been cold on her skin, and she’d liked it.

But the suspenders. God, they’re _killing_ her.

Maybe she should try dressing nicer. Maybe she should finally abandon her sweatpants and t-shirts. Maybe he’d like to see more of her, like he had back at the bar.

It’s the third week already, and they’re beginning to wrap up their discussion of _Jenova_. The exam is next week, but Tifa won’t think about it. She’s so unprepared it’s dire, but it’s okay. She can cheat off Aerith. It’ll be fine.

Professor Strife paces about the lecture hall, listening to a student’s opinion of the book. They read a lot of it in class, but Professor Strife assigned them to finish the book on their own over the weekend. Which Tifa absolutely did not do, because she wasn’t going to spend her free time fretting over some stupid novel. Fuck Sephiroth. Seriously.

And fuck Professor Strife, because he has not looked her way even once in the hour they’ve been in class.

Acting professional. _Nothing’s happening between us_.

Tifa wonders if he’ll give in, as well.

“Miss Lockhart.”

The call of her name surprises her, rattles her bones a bit. She sits up straight, the class’ attention suddenly on her. Professor Strife shears into her with his gaze, brilliant, cold blue that whispers through her entire system, and she takes in a fragmented breath, something hot, something fiery bleeding through her veins.

“What did you think of _Jenova_?”

“Oh. Um…” Out of habit, she looks to Aerith as a silent plea, but Aerith only looks at her with wide eyes and a nervous smile. “S’all right, I guess.”

Professor Strife waits. He’s waiting, expecting, but more never comes from Tifa.

His brow clenches a bit, and there’s a deep frown marred into the edge of his mouth.

 _God_. He’s hot.

“What did you like about it?” he asks, the passion for the novel woven into each of his words, his tone rough, like rocks in her throat. “I need more than that.”

Uh. Well. If she’s being honest, she didn’t really like the book at all. Professors appreciate honesty, don’t they? It’s her opinion.

“Well, actually... “ Tifa taps the tips of her nails against her desk. “I didn’t like the book at all, really.”

Aerith’s eyes look panicked.

“Teef…”

“Yeah, it was dumb, and it didn’t make much sense,” Tifa goes on. She’s just being honest. “The writing was all over the place. I didn’t get the moral, or even the whole point of the narrator’s journey. Sephiroth used a lot of big words that probably he didn’t even know the meaning of, either.”

And lastly…

“Oh, and Jenova was the worst mom ever.”

There is silence. And then there’s murmuring, fluttering about the students like wisps of candlelight. Aerith’s jaw is slack, while Reno snorts a laugh and Rufus hides a smile behind the palm of his hand.

“Tifa!” Aerith scolds.

“I’m just being honest.” Tifa shrugs her shoulders a bit.

She finally looks at Professor Strife, and maybe his anger isn’t as sexy anymore. It looks barely-contained, like it wants to burst out of his lungs. He takes off his glasses, turns away and takes in a deep, deep breath.

He leans back against his desk, crossing those lovely, strong arms of his.

“Well, Miss Lockhart, if I’m being honest with you, you don’t need to be here.”

Tifa freezes.

“If you’re just going to sit here, insult me and make a mockery of this novel, then I don’t want you to be here.” 

He looks directly at her, and maybe she prefers when he’d been avoiding her direction entirely. 

“Don’t waste my time.”

And something boils within her as well, bubbling until it comes to choke her throat. She feels like her gaze was licked by fire, and all she sees is red, her fingertips singed in it. She gets up with a loud scrape of the chair legs against the tile, gathers her notebook and folder and pencil with fast, harsh movements.

“Fine,” she says, and she hates the way her voice trembles towards the end. “I’ll leave. I don’t wanna fucking be here.”

Aerith jumps up, worry etched into her pretty face. “Tifa, wait.”

But Tifa does not wait, stomps right out of the lecture hall, the door slamming in her wake, swallowing up the shocked chatter of the class. Aerith does not come after her. Why should she? Tifa did all of this to herself, disrespected the content of the class and the professor, acted like a rude little brat in front of all her classmates. And she’s angry, raging, her fists clenched, something stinging at her eyes like acid.

Tears. She’s crying? But why? Why does she want to cry?

She stops in the hallway, the walls closing in on her, swallowing her, suffocating her. There’s a lump in her throat that won’t go away. She blinks, and she blinks, and she blinks, but she can’t stop crying. Why is she crying?

There’s no one in the hallway. Aerith didn’t come after her. She’s alone again. She always is.

It’s one of those days. Solemn, slipping right through her fingers. The days where she wonders if she’d float.

Aerith’s building is visible from this window. Tifa looks out, the glass hot against her palm, the afternoon sun that won’t quit. There’s the little bridge with the little stream underneath, the water rippling, sparkling.

She wouldn’t, she decides. She wouldn’t float.

**.**

**.**

**.**

After the initial whirlwind of emotions fades away, Tifa realizes that she hates that fucking guy.

She hates his stupid, artificially-perfect face and stupid, ice eyes and stupid, two-fifty benching arms. She hates how he’d been on his knees for her but still had her under his complete mercy, pulled her strings like he would a puppet. She hates how invasive his gaze is, tearing down all of her defenses until she feels vulnerable and naked before him. She hates his stupid, thick-rimmed glasses and stupid button downs and stupid suspenders and stupid fucking voice.

Most of all, she hates how he humiliates her. Time and time again, she feels so foolish in front of him. A slave to her desires. Wanting him despite the fact that he’s her educator, despite the fact that he’s been only professional to her.

Yeah. Sure. She was rude, and she stepped over some boundaries, and maybe she shouldn’t have called the novel dumb. But still, Professor Strife didn’t have to fucking kick her out.

(She knows why he was offended, though. She’d be too if she were in his position.)

Tifa turns onto her stomach, stuffing her face into her pillow and groaning. Loud, visceral, lets out as much as she can. She hates her life. She hates Professor Strife. Most of all, she fucking hates herself.

She wishes he could have remained just a stranger at the bar. He’d been so different then.

Tifa’s rethinking this whole _giving in to her desires_ thing.

And now, she doesn’t know what to do, because the _Jenova_ exam is next week, and she’s so nervous about it she could puke. Zack said Professor Strife’s exams aren’t hard, but Tifa’s so unprepared she knows she’s going to fail. She has no idea what the novel is even about. She hardly paid attention to Professor Strife’s lectures because she was too busy ogling him.

Fuck. Shit. She hates herself, truly.

And there’s only so much Aerith can do. Pretty, lovely Aerith who’s so intelligent and insightful, led most of the discussions they had in class, pulled a couple of proudful smiles from Professor Strife (ones he hid quickly behind _Jenova_ ).

If there’s one thing she’s sure about, it’s that he loves what he does. Loves literature, loves picking it apart sentence by sentence, word by word. Loves diving into the worlds created by ink scrawled on paper, loves losing himself in it. She could tell by his voice. How it burst with life whenever he talked about why the narrator did this, or why Sephiroth chose this specific phrase. That beautiful, rumbling voice, a deep tenor that rolled through all of her limbs.

And she...insulted him. Insulted the one thing he’s so passionate about. Disrespected him and his teaching.

Fuck. She’s a fucking _idiot_ . Fuck, why did she _do_ that?

This time, she screams into her pillow, kicking her legs. She’s an imbecile. He should fail her. She deserves it.

Her smartphone chimes with a new notification, and she hardly has the energy to check it. But she does, stretches her arm out and blindly feels around with her hand for her phone, winds her fingers around it when it comes into her grasp. She lifts her head just enough to poke one eye out and look at the screen.

A new email. From…

 _Cloud Strife_.

Tifa shoots up from her bed so fast she goes dizzy. Her fingers are clumsy, and she can’t get the email open quickly enough.

_Good evening, Miss Lockhart._

_Looking at what happened in class today, I do believe there are things you and I need to discuss. Please let me know when you are free, as I’d like to meet up with you in the library some time before our next class on Thursday._

_Best,_

_Professor Strife_

Tifa huffs, locking the screen of her phone and dropping it onto her bed. Even his emails are stupid and professional.

She wonders what exactly he wants to discuss. Does he want to scold her more for disrespecting him and his class? Does he want to tell her how stupid she is for not understanding the novel? Does he want to talk about that stupidly-tense moment they shared in the art building hallway right before Professor Valentine showed up?

Tifa wonders why he’d lingered like that. She wonders what she would have actually ended up saying had Vincent not shown up.

It would have _not_ been professional. Not one bit. That she knows for a fucking fact.

(She liked the way he lost his composure when she called him _sir_.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa stares at the offensive email. 

It’s well into the early hours of morning, and she still has not sent him a reply. The more she reads the words, the more they blur into streaks of incorrigible black, the angrier she gets. They’re so bland. Plain. Boring and professional. Of course, all emails between a professor and a student should be that way. What did she expect him to say?

_I’m sorry for being an ass. Let’s fuck._

She groans.

“Tifa,” Biggs says, and his tone is soft in warning. “It’s a school night. If Barret finds out you’re here…”

“Aw, come on!” Jessie slaps her boyfriend on his shoulder. “Let her blow off some steam! College must be killing her!”

Yeah. Jessie’s right about that.

She likes the chaos of her bar even as a customer. The noise. The rush in her ears, pounding against her skull like oncoming trucks. She likes the busyness, how she can let her thoughts melt into the alcohol down her throat, burning fires into her esophagus. She likes being numb.

It’s way better than staring at the walls of her bedroom.

She’s not drunk yet. She wishes she was. Jessie passes her another Cosmo Canyon, and maybe she’s grateful for it.

Only this drink reminds her of _him_. _Him_.

“I got kicked out of class,” Tifa says, taking another sip, and the lemon buzzes through her nerves, sets her synapses ablaze. Biggs gawks. Jessie’s eyes widen.

“How did that happen?!” Jessie yells. 

Tifa waves her hand. “S’not a big deal. I insulted the professor’s dumb book.”

It is dumb. _Jenova_ is a dumb and stupid and annoying book that doesn’t make _any_ sense.

God, she’s going to fail that exam miserably next week.

Biggs’ expression is pained. “Tifa, if Barret finds out…”

“It’s fine!” Tifa yells, and maybe her voice comes out a bit too loud. Maybe it breaks a bit at the end. She doesn’t care. Barret is her boss, but he cares about her grades. And her wellbeing. And whether or not she ate a good dinner. And whether or not she got home safely. He won’t be happy if he finds out about this.

He cares about her. Unlike _someone_.

“Jessie,” Tifa says, and suddenly, she feels strangled, hands around her neck that she can’t claw away. Her glass is empty. It shouldn’t be. “Keep them coming. Please.”

For the first time in a long time, Jessie looks at Tifa with melting, worried eyes.

It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Tifa drinks. And drinks. And drinks. And she’s incoherent, bumbling and stumbling, her vision swirling about her like paint in water. Her world is spinning, the music blaring through her ears, crushing her sternum, and she likes it, wouldn’t want it any other way.

Letting go. Being free. Being numb. She likes it. She likes it a lot.

She’s pressed against someone’s body, his hands on her hips, sliding up to cup her breasts, and she’s fine with it, likes it quite a bit, leans shamelessly into the touch. A jazz beat plays around her, and she swirls to it, rolls her body to it, lifts up her arms and likes the kisses on her neck and shoulder. He’s a stranger, but he feels nice.

She wishes it was someone else. She wishes it was Hot Guy. She wishes it was Professor Strife.

**.**

**.**

**.**

When Tifa wakes, she feels like death.

The sun makes her wince, bright and blaring and she wishes she could fucking turn it off. She’s cocooned in her blanket, and it’s impossibly warm despite the fan’s cool breath, and she’s sweating, but she doesn’t even have the energy to roll out of the cocoon, much less to get up. She feels drained down to the marrow of her bones, not to mention the fucking disastrous headache she has. Seriously, what the fuck did Jessie give her? Her head feels like it’s split in two.

To top it off? She has class today. Amazing. _Wonderful_. 

It was a school night, after all. And it was all a blur. Tifa only remembers the alcohol searing her from the inside out, the music in her ears, the hands and lips on her. Her memories are strung together loosely, playing before her in a blur as if they’re not even hers. She doesn’t even know who she danced with, what she drank, or who dropped her home.

She’s hoping with all she has that it was Biggs and not Barret. If it was Barret, she’ll be getting a severe scolding on Saturday.

Tifa hates her life. Most of all, she hates herself.

Her arm shoots out of the cocoon and feels around for her smartphone on the nightstand. She grabs it, unlocks the screen, looks at the time, the numbers mocking her, laughing at her.

Three-thirty. In the afternoon. Yes, of course.

There is something else on the screen that catches her attention. An email notification, in particular.

From the cursed _Cloud Strife_.

_Great. I’ll see you then. Also, maybe we will work on your email etiquette as well._

_Best,_

_Professor Strife_

Email etiquette? “See you then?”

Tifa, suddenly, has enough energy to shoot up from the bed, the blanket flying away. She hurriedly opens up her email app, searches through the sent mail. And what she feared is there, staring at her menacingly.

She has no recollection of it, but she replied to his email last night. While she was absolutely _hammered_. 

_Got clas s at 6 Wedensday. Meet in hte Library at 4?_

_Love,_

_Tifa_

Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god _oh my god_.

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Why didn’t Jessie confiscate her phone last night? And why the _fuck_ did Professor Strife even take that email seriously?

She has no time to dwell on how utterly stupid she is, because she told him to meet her at four. It is currently three thirty-five, and she is nowhere near campus. Tifa flings herself out of her bed, and her world begins to spin around her. All the alcohol she ingested catches up with her now, rumbling right back up her throat like acid.

She barely makes it to the bathroom.

 _Fuck_.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Three breath mints and four almost-car crashes later, Tifa makes it to the library. With exactly twenty seconds to spare. She’s lucky she lives so close to the school. 

Professor Strife is already here, sitting at a table, poised and flipping through a book. Of course he is. It now occurs to Tifa that she absolutely does not want to do this. The anger, the irritation, the embarrassment, everything comes back all at once, flooding her body as if it’s a tsunami. She’d been rude to him, disrespected something for which he holds immense passion, and he retaliated, scolded her and kicked her out in front of the entire class. The interaction has left an acrid bitterness on her tongue. She doesn’t want to do this. What’s there to discuss? She insulted him and the novel, and she’s going to fail his exam next week, and it’s all because he gave her head in the back room at her bar.

She takes a deep breath. The worst thing about all of this is how her body has betrayed her mind. The way he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose makes her toes curl in her shoes.

He looks up and at her, his gaze capturing her, pins her down until she’s floundering.

“Miss Lockhart.”

Fuck. Begrudgingly, she walks to him, puts down her bag, settles into the chair on his right.

“Hi,” she says plainly. She doesn’t look at him. “Um, sorry about that email. I didn’t think you’d actually agree to come.”

“I had time.”

He slips a bookmark into the page, shuts the novel, places it on the table in front of him. He leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, rests his threaded hands in his lap.

He’s wearing the suspenders again.

“So... “ Tifa clears her throat, and is it hot in this room? It is. Someone should turn up the air conditioner. “Uh, what did you wanna talk about?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

Tifa’s eyes go wide. Her head jerks towards his direction, and he’s looking at her.

His gaze steals all the breath from her, and she really, really wishes he wouldn’t look at her like that. Soft, melting ice. Blue like the sky, sky eyes, caught within the summer sun’s clutches, blurred by the glass of his lens. The line of his mouth is not hard but gentle, lax, and he’s less of the put-together, responsible, professional professor.

He’s human, maybe. Like he was the first night she met him. Just a guy out for a drink with a friend.

“We started off...unconventionally,” he says, coughs a bit. Color blooms into his cheeks like rose flowers, and she likes it, thinks he looks cute. She’d think him even naive, maybe, if things were different. “And I let that get in the way of my teaching. It’s pathetic, really.”

He bites at his lip, lets go a long, heavy sigh.

“I failed you as an educator, I think. I didn’t kick you out because you insulted the novel. I kicked you out because your response pointed out my shortcomings as a teacher. I didn’t do my job. I didn’t educate you properly. And I unfairly let my anger out on you.”

He turns in his chair, gets close, and she doesn’t expect it, but she doesn’t move back, either. Stays here, trapped within his clutches.

“I love teaching,” he says. “I love literature. I love reading, and I love writing. And I wanted to share all that love with my students, to show them what makes literature so beautiful. But...I didn’t do that with you, and I’m sorry.”

Something warm comes over her chest, spiraling, whirling like a storm. Warm like roses in her cheeks, warm and fluttering down to the tips of her fingers. 

“I’ll be better. I promise.”

She sighs, tucking loose hairs behind her ear. She breaks his gaze, goes to look at the floor.

“I’m sorry, too. I acted like such an immature brat. I know how much the novel means to you, and…”

Tifa’s teeth gnaw at her lip past the point of pain. She can’t put together the words, can’t piece together a sentence that completely covers everything she wants to say, everything she feels. And she feels it all, so, so deeply, rumbling through the very pit of her being. 

“Sorry. I justーwe started off really weird…”

As Miss Bartender and Hot Guy. It’s still odd, being Miss Lockhart and Professor Strife.

“Like I said, we can put it behind us.”

The problem is Tifa doesn’t really want to. Not when he’s as beautiful as he is.

He reaches into his bag, pulls out a folder and another novel. _Jenova_ ; Tifa recognizes that cover art anywhere.

“If you have some time, I thought we could go over some things.”

He flicks his pen through his fingers, his watch, this time, a sleek black, stark against the pale skin of his wrist. Tifa snorts out a laugh, and it’s mocking, nearly hostile.

“I’m a lost cause. I understand nothing about this damn book.”

“I’ll help with that.” Professor Strife leans forward, his elbows on the table. “It’s my fault, anyway. You’re my student, and I need to teach you.”

There they are. The melting eyes that pool right into her, as if she’s falling apart and made of liquid.

“I want to see you do well and thrive, Tifa.”

The sound of her name on his tongue, quiet and framed in lovely husk, makes her heart burst in her chest. She likes her name when it comes from his mouth. And it’s troubling. It’s absolutely troubling, how kind he is, how gently he’s speaking to her, how he opens up _Jenova_ and flips to a certain page, the paragraphs highlighted in yellow ink, the margins full of his quick, insightful scrawls. He begins with Jenova’s relationship with the narrator, and Tifa loses herself in the story, in the lore, in the flowery phrases and eloquent words of Sephiroth. 

Only now does she think of him as eloquent. The writing doesn’t seem as difficult to understand when Professor Strife is explaining it to her.

And it’s mind boggling, how different he sounds right now. Less like an educator and more like a man with a passion for literature. She likes how he gets excited when she points out one of Sephiroth’s similes, the ghost of a smile that plays on his lips.

It’s troubling. It’s all troubling. What is happening to her? Before she was infuriated with him. Before all she wanted was his body and his hands on her. What is happening now?

He’s kind. So lovely it pains her. And this is so, so troubling.

He even runs out to get some cans of coffee for them. Her chest is in a disarray.

“Hey!” the librarian calls, an older woman with graying hair and kind wrinkles. “No food or drinks in the library!”

Professor Strife sets down the cans, quirks his head to the side a bit. “Come on, Rosa. Even me?”

It’s laughable, how Rosa begins to come apart right before Tifa’s eyes.

“I’ll always make an exception for you, Cloud!”

Oh god. _Oh god_. Fuck. Shit. This is horrible.

Tifa’s in trouble.

**.**

**.**

**.**

It’s D-Day.

“Good luck, Tifa!” Aerith cheers, and she’s so lovely, so beautiful, her voice kind and full of life. “I know you’ll do amazing!”

“Thanks to you.” Tifa smiles crookedly. She really would not have survived until now without Aerith’s constant help and intelligence. She gives Tifa an enthusiastic thumbs up before settling into her seat. Tifa settles into hers, feeling empty, being so far away from her friends. They are taking an exam, after all. They have to spread out over the room a bit. 

Professor Strife hands out the exams, and Tifa sees some students wince as they receive the paper. That’s to be expected. A lot of students don’t do well on exams, and maybe that’s just a problem with their overall education system, but she won’t get into that. She fiddles with her pencil as she waits for the professor to come to her.

When he does, he places the exam onto her desk, and he lingers for a bit too long. His eyes are rendered invisible from the captured light in the lens of his glasses.

“Good luck, Miss Lockhart.”

There it is. The stoic, bland, professional voice. She wants to scoff. If she fails, he knows it’ll be all his fault. They didn’t spend hours in the library for nothing.

Tifa won’t think about that evening right now.

The exam...is not difficult. Not at all, really, to the point that she thinks she would have been able to pass even without Professor Strife’s tutoring session. The questions only cover the very basics of the novel; maybe one or two is more involved. None of them are fill-ins, only multiple choice. Tifa is shocked to her very core. 

She looks up at the professor, and he’s at his desk, leisurely skimming through whatever novel has his attention this week. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe he really isn’t here to make his students’ lives hard. Maybe he actually wants them to learn rather than fret over passing exams.

She’s finished early, and she can’t believe it, how well she actually did. She’s sure she got no lower than a B. And she can’t hide her excitement, can’t bite away the grin that unfurls onto her lips as she all but shoves her exam into Professor Strife’s face.

He looks at her, hums a bit, but doesn’t put down his novel.

“How did you do?”

“Well,” she says, her voice high, chipper. “Really well. I think I aced it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, nods at her. “Keep up the good work.”

Tifa’s grin gets a bit wider.

“Yes, sir.”

Professor Strife’s expression falls, and something gets harder, darker, and she almost can’t bear to keep a hold of his stare. But she does, feels lost, mesmerized, unable to look away.

His voice drops, so low it rumbles out of the depths of his throat.

“Don’t call me that,” he says. “ _You_ are not allowed to call me that.”

And something flips in Tifa’s abdomen, gets hotter and hotter, until she feels it to the tips of her ears, singeing at her better judgment. She steps just a bit closer, leans just a bit further in, her palm resting on his desk. 

“Why not?” she sings. “Do you like it?”

 _Please, sir, I want it_.

“Teef, I finished!”

Aerith bumbles over, and the moment is broken. Tifa steps back, looks at her best friend, tries to shake off the heat that’s suddenly come over her.

“How did you do?” Aerith hands her exam to Professor Strife.

Tifa looks right at him, and she does not let her smile fall.

“I did really, _really_ well.”

And Tifa thinks. About being uninhibited. About being reckless. About getting a taste of danger. About being free. Uncaring. Numb. Letting go and giving in. Becoming a slave to her desires. Really, who _cares_? 

She wants to give in to him. She wants him. So bad it aches. 

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll give into her, as well.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3


	4. 844-7777

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends i love u
> 
> special thanks to mayonaka no ame and her big brain for planting the seed of professor strife in casual jeans into my brain and now i can't stop thinking about it <3
> 
> also fnlhvnsvn left a comment on chapter 2 about how their lit fits used to distract their professor during lectures and then they smashed said professor and honestly.........iconic behavior thank u for that u inspired me to write this chapter
> 
> little warning for alcohol used as a coping mechanism

Tifa walks into literature class. Aerith, Reno, and Rufus stop, and they start at her blankly.

Reno is the first one to speak.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Clothes,” Tifa says simply. She slips into her seat, the metal of the chair cold and sticking to her bare thighs. There’s a lot of her that’s bare today. 

She can feel the professor’s gaze eating up her skin, crawling through her cells like whispers. Yes. _Yes_.

“What happened to your sweats and t-shirts?” Reno asks. Tifa shrugs.

“I wanted to dress up a little today.”

Maybe a _little_ is an understatement. Tifa’s in a tank top, the hem of it stopping just above her belly button, molding to the shape of her torso. The neck dips low. Her shorts are tight, barely enough to cover her backside. And the part she likes the most?

The stockings. Thigh highs, framing her legs in black nylon. 

Professor Strife, clearly, seems to like them as well.

Yes. _Yes_.

“You look amazing, Teef!” Aerith gushes, a pretty pink flirting over the tops of her cheeks. “I love the shirt! And the stockings!”

Aerith always knows just what to say. Tifa’s heart swells. It’s a Monday afternoon, the beginning of the week, and the heat is sweltering, a summer sun that just won’t quit. Maybe last week was bad. Solemn, and she drank away her inhibitions at her bar. But this week is better, and she’s grateful for it. She’s having a great day.

It’s even better, because Professor Strife, who normally never looked her way for the sake of being _professional_ , now cannot take his eyes off her.

Yes. _Good_.

“Uh…” And he shakes his head a little, coughs a bit into his hand. He’s wearing that nice, black watch again. “G—good afternoon, class.”

He’s flustered, and Tifa revels in it, likes the hard flush that bathes into the color of his face. Likes the way he tries to keep his eyes away from her as if his life depends on it. Likes the way he fails miserably, and his eyes keep coming back to her legs under the desk as if she’s made of magnets.

She crosses them, fiddles with the hem of one of her stockings. And he freezes, his hands curling into fists at his desk.

Yes. _Yes_. He’ll let go in no time.

“I was very impressed with your exam results,” he says to the class. He picks up a stack of papers, flicks through them with the tips of his fingers, calls out each student’s name one by one so he or she can come up and grab his or her exam. He wants to go over the questions, he said.

When Tifa’s name comes up, he goes rigid.

“Miss Lockhart—actually, no, don’t get up.”

Tifa’s confused, sits back down in her chair as he comes to her, walks with a misplaced urgency.

“Here,” he says, and he swiftly drops her exam onto her desk. “I’ll just pass the rest out.”

Oh. Okay. Tifa wonders about his peculiar behavior, but then, it comes to her.

He doesn’t want to see more of her clothes. He doesn’t want to see more of her legs, or maybe the sway of her hips.

 _Yes_. A grin breaks into her face, and she tries to hide it behind her exam. She looks at the grade, bled into the white in a bright, fraying red.

An A. A perfect A.

 _Excellent_.

Professor Strife begins to go over the answers of the exam. Some students raise their hands to ask questions, to ask if this answer is also okay, or why this answer was wrong. And he replies to each question enthusiastically, even draws up a character diagram on the whiteboard for one particularly confused student. And Tifa watches, leans her chin into the palm of her propped arm. His words were true, and it’s evident now. He likes literature. He likes teaching. He likes teaching them what makes literature beautiful.

Tifa likes that. She also likes the way his gray slacks fall around the shape of his ass.

 _Nice_.

“Who’d like to answer the next question?”

This question was one of the tougher ones: for what does Jenova abandon her son exactly? But Tifa was able to answer it properly, all thanks to the professor’s private tutoring.

She raises her hand, and she’s the only participant. He looks at her, and he looks very quickly away.

“Anyone else?”

“Why not me?!”

She absolutely loves the way he sighs in defeat.

“Fine. Miss Lockhart?”

“Thank you, _sir_.”

There it is again. The drop in his expression, the shadows of his face darkening, the lines hardening. She can see the way he clenches his jaw, the way he has to gather himself. The class hangs in the silence, and she begins to read aloud her answer.

“She had to prove herself to her comrades,” Tifa says, reads the exact words she scrawled on her test paper. “She didn’t want to abandon the narrator, but she was selfish, and she cared about her own desires more than her own son.”

Huh. Who else does that sound like?

Tifa tries to swallow it away. Not now.

Professor Strife nods at her.

“Correct. Moving on.”

He looks angry, his face carved out in ire. He turns away, moves on from that question very, very quickly, and quietly, Tifa bathes in the glow of her victory. It’s a small one, but one nonetheless.

Mister Professional is having a _lot_ of trouble staying professional whenever she calls him _sir_. She wants to laugh.

She wonders how long it will take for him to crack.

(She was entirely accurate in her fantasies. He has a sir kink.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

On Thursday, they begin _Loveless_. Maybe this novel is slightly less stupid than the last. It’s about three men, Midgar soldiers during the war with Wutai. They’re on a quest to find something called the Gift of the Goddess. Whatever that is. Tifa isn’t sure. Why is it even called _Loveless_? She doesn’t know. And she doesn’t even remember the names of the three protagonists, not when Professor Strife looks as nice as he does today.

He’s wearing jeans. Professors dress casually sometimes, and they wear jeans, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. But this is the first time Professor Strife has ever worn jeans in class, and she doesn’t think she ever wants him to wear slacks again. They’re tight. Not stick-to-his-skin tight, but not middle-aged dad loose, either. They fit him just right, bend and curve to the shape of his legs, the dark blue stark against the cream of the wall and the light tan of his skin. And the best part?

His ass looks fantastic. God, Tifa gets so excited every time he turns around to write something on the board.

(She didn’t have the energy to dress up today, but she hopes he enjoys the way her ass looks in these leggings.)

He ends the class a few minutes early today, saying it’s better to stop after the first couple of chapters, and none of the students complain. There’s a burst of noise, chairs scraping against tiles and the rustling of papers, and Reno and Aerith begin to argue about what they should eat.

“But I want pizza!”

“I’m sick and tired of your shit, Gainsborough!”

Rufus looks at Tifa, his smartphone pressed against his ear, his expression plain.

“I’m ordering pizza,” he says simply. “Reno can choke.”

Tifa knows she can always count on Rufus.

She lets her three friends go ahead, saying she’ll meet them in Aerith’s room for the pizza later. When the door shuts, and the last of the students are gone, Tifa clasps her hands behind her back, fluttering about the desks, lingering in the grasp of the Professor’s stare, hard and like her spine is plunged in ice. She still quite loves the sky blue of them.

“Hi.”

“No.”

He quickly slings his bag over his shoulder. Tifa rolls her eyes. 

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“Whatever it is, no.”

It takes all her strength to swallow away the laugh that bubbles in her throat. The slight panic in his expression, the frenzy of his movements; Mister Professional is having trouble staying professional, and it delights her viscerally.

“I’m confused about _Loveless_.”

“We just started it!” He stops, takes back in the flared inflation of his voice, clears his throat and rights his posture. “I mean, there isn’t much to be confused over.”

“That’s not something a good educator should say.” She crosses her arms, walks a bit closer to him. He doesn’t back away, and she leans in a bit into him, the cool mint of his cologne wafting over her senses. She gets heady with it, the scent sparking through her entire body as if she’s been struck by lightning. God. _God_.

When is he going to give in and let her win this game he doesn’t even know they’re playing?

“Consult your friend, Miss Gainsborough.” Professor Strife pushes up his glasses with the tip of his finger. She can’t help but stare at it and the rest of his fingers, his knuckles, the veins that wrap over the bones and scurry down into his arm. The rolled-up sleeves. The two-fifty muscles rippling through his button down. The strands of his hair falling into an elegant but wild waltz over his forehead. The downward curl of his lip, the clench of his brow, the cold glint of his eyes.

Everything. His everything is so lovely Tifa doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“If you’re still confused, you’re more than welcome to shoot me an email and set up another library session,” he says, and his voice is calm. Professional. She hates that word, now. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He brushes past her, and she’s nearly whisked away by the scent of him, his cologne and is that aftershave? God. _God_.

Her insides begin to twirl, and she steers herself, trying to catch her breath. Something hot begins to pool in her core, and suddenly, she feels like she’s been set on fire.

(She doesn’t miss the way he looks back and steals a glance at her ass before leaving. Maybe he’s been upgraded to a two thousand out of ten, now.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

On Sunday, Tifa’s met with a new dilemma.

“Have you finished Professor Strife’s essay yet?”

She stops running her fingers through the feathers of Aerith’s chocobo plushie.

“What essay?”

“The _Jenova_ essay,” Aerith says. “You forgot about it?”

The chocobo plushie goes flailing against the wall. Tifa sits up on Aerith’s bed.

“I didn’t even know about it!”

“It’s on the syllabus!”

“Who reads the syllabus?!” Tifa argues.

“I do!” Aerith pouts. Of course she does. She’s a good, hardworking student. And Tifa...isn’t. There are many reasons for it. But mostly, she just wants to pass.

(And survive, but that’s a different story.)

“It’s due tomorrow,” Aerith says, her expression grim. “And it’s three pages long.”

Tifa’s heart goes tumbling into her stomach. Fuck that guy fuck that guy _fuck that guy_.

What should have been a relaxing night of movies and snacks with her best friend turns into a frenzied rush of typing and floundering. Tifa borrows Aerith’s laptop, pulls up a new word document and goes manic, words spurting from her fingertips, and she hardly even knows what’s going on. Aerith’s guidance is nice, and honestly, Tifa doesn’t know what she’d do without her.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know about this.” Aerith scrunches her nose. “I mean, he reminded us so many times.”

Yeah, well, Tifa doesn’t exactly _listen_ to him in class. She’s too busy ogling him and letting her fantasies run amok in her head.

“You really think I listen to him?”

“I mean, you should,” Aerith says pointedly. “He’s the professor.”

Yeah, he is. And even though she’s annoyed over this fucking essay, she still wants him to rail her into the next dimension.

“Yeah, the professor who gave me head…”

Wait. _Wait_. Did she…

Aerith sits up, her eyes going so wide they may fall out of her skull.

“ _What_?!”

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Tifa said that aloud. _Fuck_. Aerith _heard_ her.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.

It was only a matter of time. Aerith knows everything about her. But still. The panic rumbles through Tifa’s nerves, and she shoves the laptop away, the essay the least of her concerns right now. Her secret is out. Oh my god, it’s _out_.

“He gave you head?!” 

“He was the guy at the bar…” Tifa admits, and she feels like crawling out of her skin and dying. Aerith is her best friend, so why is this so unbearably embarrassing? “Mister Hot Guy…”

Aerith’s jaw is slack, her mouth round.

“Oh my god. _Professor Strife_ went into a back room with you and gave you head?”

Tifa nods, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm onto her thigh.

“Yup…”

“I find that very hard to believe,” Aerith says, waving her hand. “Strife? Really?”

“Yes, Strife,” Tifa says, and her voice drops into a low, exasperated groan. “That’s why he’s so weird with me.”

Their relationship is...weird. _Very_ weird. Full of tension, full of dancing around each other and pretending there’s nothing happening. Tifa’s playing a game, and she doesn’t think he even knows that he’s a player, but it’s okay. He’ll know it once she wins, surely.

The want. The heat. The lingering. The kind words, the way his ice, sky eyes melt her at one moment and pierce her at another. His passion. The sculpted features of his face, so beautiful they hurt her. Tifa’s struck with emotion, spinning and spinning inside her until she goes dizzy, heady, her sight blurring over.

Yeah, their relationship is really fucking weird.

“I am so sorry,” Aerith says, her brow furrowed in worry. “I should have let you drop the class when you had the chance.”

Tifa shakes her head, sighing.

“It’s fine…”

She won’t be dropping Midgar Literature now. Not at all.

“Because he’s hot.”

Aerith’s face rips into a cheeky, pretty grin, the emeralds of her eyes glowing, like twinkling lights in Tifa’s sight.

“He is!”

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa hates this. And she hates Professor Strife.

Yeah, okay. Fine. It’s her fault for not paying attention in class to his reminders about the essay. Yeah, maybe she should have fucking looked at the syllabus. Fine. Whatever. But she’s still going to be angry at him, because she’s quite tired of being angry with herself. Is an essay really necessary? They finished _Jenova_ a week ago. They already took the exam; that novel flew itself out of her brain the second Tifa answered the last test question. Why, why is she being forced to dwell on it again? And why does she have to write three fucking pages on it?

Logically, Tifa knows that he isn’t asking for much. Three pages are doable. And his exam was hilariously easy. And he sat in the library with her for two hours, carefully articulating and mapping out everything important about the novel, the lights dancing in his eyes, as if he was a little kid on Christmas. And Tifa listened to him, hung onto his every word, felt stricken and like she was in a troubling storm when he’d went and gotten coffee cans for them to drink. So, why is she struggling now? It should be easy. She even had Aerith’s guidance earlier tonight, and Aerith, the sweet angel she is, helped Tifa get the first page done. Tifa was even able to get a second page done on her own. So, what is the problem now? Why is she like this, slumped over her laptop screen in her bed, staring blankly at the word document, the white of it stark, as if it’s laughing at her?

The hours inch by, crawling into a new day. It’s Monday now, and the essay is due a minute before Midgar Literature starts. But Tifa has a morning class, and she knows she won’t be able to finish the essay later. She has to do it now.

So, why can’t she? Why is she just staring, chaos in her ears and nothing in her brain? Solemn. Quiet. Floating, floating.

Alone. Like always.

_I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I won’t be coming home this week either. But next week, I promise, I’ll be home._

It’s a lie. It’s always a lie. So, why did she believe him this time?

Tifa groans, throwing her smartphone away, uncaring of how it clacks painfully against her wooden floor. She tosses her laptop away as well, sick and tired of this fucking essay, sick and tired of everything. Truly, wholly, terribly.

She needs some fucking alcohol.

She wanders into the kitchen, rips open a cabinet. There it is, the red wine her dad loves so much. She wraps her fingers around the neck of the bottle, wrenches open the cork, and she drinks. And she drinks. And drinks, a swig that never ends, not until there’s barely another sip left in the bottle, the sweetness rumbling through her spine, the bitterness coming after, crawling up her throat and choking her in ashes. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, swirling lazily in the haze, in the buzz that begins to come over her.

She likes this. Feeling heady. Numb. Lost, uninhibited. Free.

She waddles back into her bedroom, and she isn’t slamming into her walls, thankfully. But her soberness is far, far gone, too far to even reach towards, and she likes that. The laptop screen has gone dark, and she flops onto her bed, reaching down to look for the phone she threw away before. It comes into her grasp, and she swipes at the screen until it’s unlocked, irritated at the multiple unsuccessful attempts.

She opens up her email app. She doesn’t know why, but she stares at the last email Professor Strife had sent her, the one telling her he’d meet her at four in the library. He’d signed it off himself, but there’s a little, automatic signature pasted right underneath his words.

_Cloud Strife, Head Editor at Midgar Publishing_

_Office: 844-8099_

_Cell: 844-7777_

The number. His phone number. It’s _right there_. Staring at her menacingly. Now that she recalls, he put it in the syllabus as well, in case a student needs to reach him and he isn’t answering his emails. She remembers this specifically, because many girls in the class were very pleased at having his phone number at their disposal. Not that they’re allowed to do anything with it, of course.

Tifa isn’t, either. She’s not allowed to call him for matters that aren’t professional. _Professional_. She’s supposed to be professional with him. She can’t dress prettily for him. She can’t tease him, play this game with him. She can’t feel troubled when he acts sweet towards her or gives her his ghost of a smile. She can’t swoon over his strong arms and perfect face and rolled-up sleeves. She can’t let him in between her legs again, can’t pleasure him the way he did her when they first met. She can’t fantasize about him, think about him doing bad things to her. 

But _she wants to_. _God_ , she wants him to have his way with her. Do whatever he’d like to her.

And before she knows it, she’s so warm she feels like she’s melting from the inside out. Fire lick at her skin, coat her in a thin film of sweat, and her fingers are gripping her smartphone so hard her nails nearly crack. 

It’s the alcohol. She knows it is. But god, what is he doing to her?

“Professor,” she moans out, and it’s fine, because she’s alone, and no one can hear her. No one is here to chastise her for being unprofessional, for thinking bad things about her educator. Barret and her dad aren’t here. It’s okay.

She’ll let go, just for tonight.

“Sir, _please_.”

Tifa’s hands slide down her body, and she hooks her thumbs into the waistbands of her shorts and panties. Both come off, bunch around her ankles, and she struggles to flick them away. She gets annoyed, and she lets them hang off one of her feet as her legs come open, as wide as they’ll go. The air that hits her is cool, and she shudders, her fingers prodding at her lower lips, spreading them, picking up the wetness that has gathered. She’s so wet it’s painful, and she’s thinking. Letting her mind spiral and spiral until there’s no hope of her ever getting up again.

He likes being called sir. She wonders what else he’d like. Would he tie her up, bind her, take away her mobility? Would he blindfold her, take away her sight, make her writhe in anticipation as she wonders where his next touch will be? Would he like to take her from the back, or would he like to lay her down, get as close to her as possible, and roll his hips into her until she sees stars? Would he lick at her like he did at the bar, suck at her clit until she can’t take it anymore? Would he use his fingers, curl his nails against her sweet spot? 

Those fingers would feel nice, she thinks. So, so nice. And his hands would feel nice, grabbing at all of her skin. They would feel so much better than hers, but she’s all she has, right now.

God, she wishes it was him. She wishes he was here.

“Professor Strife,” she breathes, slides a finger into herself, and her walls welcome the digit openly. Would he want her to come all around his cock, her walls clenching around him? Would he like to come inside her, fill her up with his seed? Or would he like to come on her face, or her breasts, or her ass?

She’d let him come wherever he wants. She’s his, right now. He has her trapped in his clutches.

“Sir,” she gasps, her thumb coming to rub soft circles into her clit. It’s hard, aching, and she desperately wishes it was his tongue there instead, licking at her until she drips all down her thighs and his chin. “God, _please_ , sir, you feel so good.”

He would feel good. She knows he would.

Tifa rubs at herself with an urgency, her fingers bunched into the sheets under her. She thinks of the night he was between her legs and told her to ride his face. She thinks of his muscles rippling beneath his button down. She thinks of him and all that he is, his hard, authoritative voice sending vibrations down her spine. Professor. Her educator.

She comes, long and hard, on her fingers, choking on her own moans. White stars erupt in her eyes, and the world flees her, leaves her hanging in the balance as she tries to sink back down to the surface. 

When she’s coherent (as much as she can be while drunk), she stares at her ceiling, thinking. It was good, she thinks. That orgasm was good, knocked all the wind out of her, and she’s trembling. It was good.

But not as good as the one Professor Strife gave her.

Tifa sighs, rolling over until she’s in her pillow. Sleep calls to her, lulls her in its dark embrace. She’s horribly tired.

The essay can fucking wait.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa wakes regretting every single decision she’s ever made.

It’s Monday, she groggily remembers. And Monday is the beginning of another hellish school week. The sun is loud, bleeds painfully into her eyes in bursts of red, and she sinks her head under her blanket, whimpering in her throat. Her head hurts so much she wouldn’t be surprised if her skull was actually shattering. God. _God_. Why did she have to drink that entire bottle of wine? What even happened last night? It’s a distant blur to her, but it comes back to her in little snippets, images of which she tries to make sense.

Her word document. The text message. A phone number. And…

Her shorts and panties are on the floor. She’s naked from the waist down, and when she moves her legs, she senses a stickiness lingering between her thighs.

Ah, yes. There was _that_. Did she even finish her fucking essay?

She decides that she should maybe act like a person and get up. So she does, groans as she does, her head protesting, her sight swimming. She grabs her laptop, which is lying not too far away, buried within her sheets. She swings the screen open, turns it on, waits as it loads.

It’s eleven. She slept through her entire morning class.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Oh well. Highwind won’t mind that she missed class, right?

She gets her essay document open, the white like paint splattering across her vision. She scrolls down, sees the two pages worth of garbage she wrote yesterday, one page shy of the professor’s assigned minimum. She reads through the words, frowning deeply, humming at some points, because hey, this sentence isn’t too bad, or hey, this point makes a lot of sense. And after a few minutes of extensive, foggy, hungover deliberation, Tifa decides to send in the essay. It’s certainly garbage, and it’s under the minimum, but it isn’t too bad, will get her a solid C at least. She can’t be bothered to write anything more right now, not when her head hurts as much as it does. And, well, she used the professor’s tutoring in order to write the essay. So, she’ll be fine, she thinks. It’ll be fine.

Right now, she has to focus on getting to campus and getting through the rest of her day without fucking dying. She just might, though, especially when the wine she drank comes right back up to greet her again. 

She hates her fucking life. Most of all, she hates herself.

**.**

**.**

**.**

In sweltering, uncharacteristic, October weather, Tifa goes to class wearing a hooded sweatshirt. That’s how deathly she feels.

When she plops into her seat, Aerith, Reno, and Rufus look at her, blinking. Reno speaks first.

“The fuck is wrong with yー”

Tifa holds up a finger, shushing him immediately.

“Do _not_ ,” she warns, her voice gruff, like it doesn’t belong to her. “Do not talk to me. Do not look at me. Do not perceive me. I do not wish to be perceived.”

Rufus snickers quietly. Reno scoffs. Aerith just looks concerned.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Reno says. Tifa frowns. She knows that, but still, she can’t let Reno win. Fuck Reno.

“I hope you and Elena break up again.”

Reno gawks. Rufus laughs even louder. Aerith frowns, but then, she leans into Tifa, her voice a low whisper.

“They already broke up. Zack and I won this week.”

Good for them, Tifa thinks. Fuck Reno.

Professor Strife stands up, begins the class as soon as the clock strikes one. He starts by talking about the essays that were due today, how pleased he is that everyone submitted his or hers on time. 

“You guys are doing amazing,” he says, his eyes dancing with the split gold of the afternoon sun. “Keep up the good work.”

Good work. Tifa really doesn’t think she’s been doing any good work in this fucking class.

_I want to see you do well and thrive, Tifa._

Well, she’s doing anything but thriving right now.

She knows Professor Strife never normally looks at her. Because of professionalism, of course. Or maybe he’s embarrassed. Whatever the case, he doesn’t look at her during class, avoids her unless she’s wearing something he likes, or unless she says something he likes. Like sir. He likes it when she calls him sir.

But today, he does not look at her. Not even once, and there’s a particularly hard edge to his tone all class, grating against the walls, like he’s barely holding back his ire. He’s a little impatient, a little clipped and cold, his body rigid, as if his joints are all bound by strings. And she wonders just why. What has him so wound up taut today? What has him looking so irritated? 

Honestly, she shouldn’t complain. She likes that he won’t look at her. It makes the fact that she masturbated to him last night just a bit more palatable. Only a bit.

She’s still embarrassed out of her fucking mind, though. God, she wants him so bad it hurts.

Professor Strife ends the class forty-five minutes early, and it’s a surprise, because he normally never does that. Not that she’s complaining. She’s hungry, and she’s excited to go eat lunch with her friends.

Only as she’s walking out, the professor’s voice halts her, pulls her right back.

“Miss Lockhart. I’d like to speak with you.”

Reno and Rufus are a bit confused, but they go right on ahead. Aerith lingers, her ever knowing gaze glued to Tifa’s skin.

“Go ahead,” Tifa says, and she gives a small smile. “I’ll catch up with you guys.”

Aerith leaves, but not without dropping Tifa a look that screams _you’d better tell me everything later._

And when the door is closed, when the last of the students are gone, Professor Strife finally turns to Tifa, finally looks at her.

She kind of wishes he wouldn’t. Striking blue, ice blue, it crawls all through her cells, and she feels like she’s about to drown in it. 

“I glanced at your essay,” he says, adjusting the hinge of his glasses before crossing his arms. 

Tifa’s heart falls in her chest. God, do they really have to talk about this? She didn’t want to be perceived today. 

She pulls at the drawstrings of her sweatshirt, tightens her hood around her head, wishing the fabric would just swallow her whole.

“Yeah. Sorry. I know it wasn’t my best work.”

“That’s an understatement,” he says. “It was horrendous, actually.”

Shock lodges itself into her throat, and Tifa coughs around it. _Wow_. _Rude_. Fucking _rude_. It wasn’t that bad. It was a C at least. It absolutely was _not_ horrendous. What the hell is his problem?

“Well, _that’s_ rude.” She steps a bit closer, crossing her arms, stands in the same way he does. Upright, her shoulders tall, and she won’t back down. “Is that something a good educator should say?”

“I’m trying to be a good educator to you,” he says, his frown growing deeper, a dark slash into his lips. Normally, she’d think his anger attractive, sexy, lovely, but right now, it fuels her in fires, makes her see red, makes her chest spin in rage. Who the fuck does he think he is? “But you’ve disappointed me. I know you can do so much better than this.”

Tifa thinks of the night she did the essay. The panic. Aerith helping her. Going home, working on another page. Seeing that stupid fucking text message. Drinking that stupid fucking bottle of wine. The solemnity. The white paint of her walls. The noise, the chaos, the tightness in her throat, unrelenting until she felt it choke her. 

Yeah, she fucking knows she can do better. She knows.

“I’m sorry I’m a fucking human being, and I can’t do my best all the fucking time.”

He steps closer to her, so close she’s submerged in his scent, the cool mint that drives her mad.

“Don’t curse at me, Miss Lockhart.”

“Or what?” she asks, gets even closer, her chest brushing his. “What are you going to do? Fail me? Kick me out again?”

The words tumble out of her before she has the chance to stop them.

“Get on your knees for me again?”

His breath staggers, and she can see the way he barely struggles to hold onto his last thread of control. The clench in his jaw. The crunch of his brow. The way he unwinds his arms, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles go white. 

He’s about to break. She knows he is.

“I have to get going now,” he says, finally tears his gaze away from hers. Professional. He’s professional again. “If you’d wish to discuss your grade further, feel free to send me an email or visit me during my office hours. They’re on the syllabus.”

He gathers his things, and he’s running. Of course he is. He’s been doing nothing but avoiding her and bothering the shit out of her ever since the semester started. Out of professionalism. He’s her educator. Her superior.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. Everything about this is wrong. But she doesn’t _care_.

She wants to let go. To be free. Because really, who cares? Her dad doesn’t.

“Sir.”

He stops. And he leans into her, the hot fan of his breath passing the hood around her head and waking gooseflesh all down her neck.

“Check your call history from this morning, Miss Lockhart.”

And then he’s gone. And she’s left flustered, panting, her brain whirling. 

She doesn’t know how long she can keep this up.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Only when she gets to the school café and sits down with her friends does she actually ponder over what the fuck Professor Strife said as he left.

Call history? From this morning? She didn’t call anyone this morning; she slept until eleven. She also didn’t receive any calls, because she got no missed call notifications. And why is he telling her to check her call history? What does that even mean? She doesn’t even have his phone number, nor does he have hers.

The confusion gets worse and worse by the minute. She decides to just take out her smartphone and try to figure out what the fuck he was talking about.

“Listen, Reno!” Zack yells, and even though Tifa has barely the mind to pay attention to her disaster of a group of friends, Zack’s voice is loud enough to even swallow her attention. “You gotta stop with Elena!”

Reno does not even appear to be listening, scrolls away on his phone.

“What? I can’t hear you,” he says flatly. “Hey, Aerith, which perfume should I get Elena as an apology?”

Aerith sighs. Tifa sighs as well. Reno and Elena are a mess, but Tifa’s the pot calling the kettle black. How can she judge their relationship when she has this... _thing_ going with their fucking literature professor? She groans.

She brings up her call history, looks through it. Something peculiar catches her attention.

An outgoing call. At around one this morning. Outgoing? Who the fuck would she call at that late hour?

Then, it dawns on her. She was very drunk at the time. Ah, yes. Drunk calling. How cliché.

The number is also peculiar. It isn’t a number she has saved, nor does she really recognize it. 844-7777. Who is that?

Wait. _Wait_.

“Aerith,” Tifa calls with a frenzied urgency. Aerith looks at her, startled. “Give me your Midgar Literature syllabus. Hurry. _Fast_!”

“Okay, okay!” Aerith shuffles through her folder, and the desired syllabus comes into her grasp almost immediately. Ever the organized, studious college student. She hands over the syllabus, and Tifa scans the words like her life depends on it.

Professor Strife’s contact information. His email, his work phone…

And his personal phone. 844-7777.

No. _No_.

She called him. At one in the morning. While she was drunk. Oh my god. _Oh my god_.

Wait. She was drunk last night. And when she got back to bed, she…

Tifa shrieks, holding her head in her hands. Her friends all jump, yelling along with her.

“What happened?!” Zack screams. 

Reno’s horrified. “What the fuck, Lockhart?!”

“Are you okay, Tifa?!” Aerith’s hands are on Tifa’s shoulders.

No. Tifa is absolutely _not_ okay. She called her professor in the middle of the night. While she was drunk. And _masturbating_ to him.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god _oh my fucking god_.

He knows she was masturbating to him. He heard her. That’s why he told her to check her call history.

Her life is over. This is it. She thinks she has to go die now. There’s no way she’ll ever recover from this. It’s over.

“Bye guys.”

“Where are you going?!” Zack shouts.

“To get hit by a car. See y’all in hell.”

“Tifa!” Aerith whines. “What happened?! Are you all right?!”

“Absolutely not,” Tifa says, and she can’t say anything more, because if she even begins to churn out the words, she thinks she definitely will vomit. She can’t _believe_ this. 

She lost. She lost the game. It’s over. No more lusting for her professor. She maybe needs to start going to church now.

She’s seriously considering standing in front of an oncoming car. It’d hurt less than _this_.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3


	5. breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. hello. oh my god. the support on this story is......overwhelming for me. THANK U SO MUCH. i cant express how much your comments and excitement mean to me!!!! especially the ideas discussed in sector 69 and all the teacher stories you guys shared with me!!!!! it makes me so happy akdjkdjskd im really sorry im a Disaster and haven't replied to comments yet but i truly appreciate you guys soooo much and it means the world to me that you're enjoying the story!
> 
> and to thank u guys.........i made them fuck. pls enjoy <3 (also a lot of this scene is inspired by allumanoir's [incredible professor strife fic](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13591222/4/Logarithmic-Base-2) please go read it!!!)
> 
> also this unedited so pls dont hurt me

Tifa wishes she’d just keel over. This is _horrific._

She goes home for the day, tired of existing, tired of being a functioning human being. Sometimes she wishes she could be a potato. She sits on her living room couch, crunched into a ball, a random show playing on the television, faraway white noise to accompany the pandemonium of her thoughts. They haven’t stopped whirling for hours. 

He heard her masturbating to him. He heard her moan, call out his name, touch herself to the thought of him. She can’t fucking _believe_ she drunk dialed him.

She’ll never be able to face him again. She wishes she could drop the course. But if she does, she’ll be under the class credit limit, and she’ll fall behind. She really should have dropped this course and picked up another one when she had the chance. Or maybe she should just drop out entirely. College fucking sucks. She hates it here.

She wails, holding her head in her hands. God, what is she supposed to do? How is she supposed to go to his class on Thursday? What could she even say to defend herself?

_Sorry I masturbated to you. I was sad and drunk. It won’t happen again._

Fuck. Shit. She hates her life.

The worst part about this entire thing? She gets some of the most mind-blowing orgasms when she’s thinking about him. This is a scam. Her existence is a scam.

Next to her, her smartphone chimes with a new notification. It’s an email notification. From the dreaded man himself. _Professor Strife_.

_Good evening, Miss Lockhart._

_Attached is your essay, graded with comments. I’m offering all the students who didn’t do too well to make corrections and send the essay back to me for an extra fifteen points. If you’d like, you may also do the same._

_Additionally, if there’s anything you’d like to discuss, my office hours are from 4pm to 7pm on Mondays._

_Best,_

_Professor Strife_

Damn, he works fast. Tifa opens up the attachment, and ah. Yes. There it is. A seventy percent. A perfect C. She knew it. Of course, he’s a jerk and couldn’t give her anything higher than that.

She looks at the email, reads it over and over until the words are buzzing in her head. If there’s anything she’d like to discuss? What does he mean by that? Does he mean he wants to discuss the fact that she masturbated to him and he heard her? Does he want to talk about how he loves when she calls him sir? Does he want to talk about how she tasted that night, or how desperate she was for his touch, or how he left her hanging onto his promise for more? Does he want to talk about how they’ve been everything but fucking professional ever since the semester started?

Tifa has a headache again. Fuck. 

She doesn’t know what to do. There are a lot of things to discuss. Mostly, she wants to yell at him some more for calling her essay horrendous. Fucking asshole. He’s an asshole. She knows she can fucking do better. She knows.

She hates him. And most of all, she hates herself for clinging to him like this, for letting him humiliate her like this. She’s enraged, full of fire, and maybe, just maybe, she’s going to erupt. The tension woven into her limbs like she’s a toy doll, the way he has her by the strings, tugging her along as he wills. His stupid voice and stupid two-fifty benching arms and stupid, _stupid_ face.

She’s tired. Tifa’s exhausted of this. She really isn’t sure how long she can keep this up. How long it’ll take before he cracks.

She cracked a long, _long_ time ago. It’s so _stupid_.

She looks at the clock on the wall. Six. One hour to go until he’ll be leaving his office. And then, something occurs to her, pops into her brain, flashes like red lights against her vision.

He...answered the call last night. He heard her masturbate to him. But...for how long?

Tifa grabs her phone urgently, slides it open at record speed. She pulls up her call log again. Before, she’d been so distressed about the fact that she called him at all to really notice how long he stayed on the call.

Seventeen minutes. He was listening to her for _seventeen minutes_.

Oh, she’s going to fucking _kill him_.

She gets up and goes before she has the chance to change her mind.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa stands in front of the English department, unmoving.

_Why did she come here why did she come here why did she come here._

She’s dumb. She’s a fucking idiot. Why in the world would she come here? What did she hope to accomplish by coming here? Yell at him some more? What good is that going to do?

Although she wants to. She really wants to yell at him some more. He deserves it. Especially since he listened to her masturbating to him for seventeen fucking minutes.

Fuck. _Fuck_. How can she even look him in the eye?

She’s about to turn away, to run away because she’s a coward who can’t do this, but a voice calls out to her, makes her stop in her tracks.

“Hi.” It’s a sweet voice, full of kindness, drowning her in syrup. It’s an elderly lady, crow’s feet around her eyes and mirth in her smile. She’s in the middle of packing her bag. “Can I help you, sweetheart?”

Tifa instantly feels a thousand times better.

“Uh, I’m here to see Professor Strife…”

The kind lady points to a door near the corner of the room, past all the cubicles. “Right in there, love.”

She slings her bag onto her shoulder, grabs her car keys, ready to go home. Tifa shimmies out of her way, thanking her as she goes out. And Tifa looks around the room. It’s barren, not a single other soul here, the walls cold, whispering. She walks to her desired door, frowning deeply at the metal sign hanging on it.

 _Cloud Strife_.

Fuck him.

Tifa knocks on the door before she loses the nerve.

“Come in.”

 _Come in_. What a pretentious asshole. Tifa’s _so_ angry.

“Miss Lockhart.”

Miss Lockhart slams the door behind her, stares down at him with red flames licking at the edges of her sight. He’s seated at his desk, flipping through a pile of papers. His desk is neat, a lamp, a cup of pens and highlighters, a few frames with pictures Tifa cannot see. And of course, a large stack of books at the corner.

It’s everything she expected it to look like. He’s poised. Proper. Stoic. Professional.

“What did you want to discuss?”

He leans back, takes his glasses off, grabs at a little piece of fabric and wipes at both lenses. And Tifa hates herself for getting distracted by the way his fingers are moving, the knuckles and veins under his skin, the thinness of them, how cold they’d felt on her skin. She’s distracted by the suspenders he’s wearing, by his unbuttoned collar and the skin she can see underneath. She’s so distracted she doesn’t even remember what she came here to discuss.

It comes to her a few seconds later.

“You told me to come here.”

“No I didn’t,” he says, perches his glasses back onto his nose. “I said that if you _wanted_ to discuss anything, you were more than welcome to visit my office.”

And he sounds so _sure_. So _arrogant_. And Tifa loathes it with all her being, steps closer until she’s leaning her palms onto his desk. He sits back, crosses his legs.

“The hell is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he says.

“You gave me a C on that essay.”

“You deserved it,” he says, and god, _god_ , she’s really going to explode. “I know you can do better.”

Tifa’s _so fucking sorry_ that she’s sad and can’t put a hundred percent into every single fucking thing she does.

“I offered you extra credit. What is _your_ problem, Miss Lockhart?”

Her problem? Her fucking problem? She has a lot of them. And many of them pertain to him and his stupid face and stupid arms and stupid glasses and stupid tongue. She liked the stranger in the bar so much better than him, and part of her still wishes he’d remained just that: a stranger in her bar. A spur of the moment rush of feelings so overwhelming she couldn’t bear them. She’d gone into that back room with him, let his mouth between her legs, and she didn’t care.

Now, she cares. Too much. About his class. His assignments. Him and the way he looks at her, speaks to her, dances around her. Acts _professional_.

She’s exhausted, and she wants to let go. To be numb. Free. To not _care_. Really, what does she have to lose? She’s sad and alone anyway.

And she’s _needy_. For him, his body, his hands and mouth on her, and she really can’t fucking take it anymore. She wants him so bad it’s hurting her viscerally.

Let go. Give in.

“My _problem_ is that I want you to bend me over this desk and _fuck me_ until I can’t fucking see straight.”

Rationality comes back to her for a split moment, and she can’t _believe_ she fucking said that. But she does not retract the statement, does not back down, especially not when she can feel him breaking within her hold.

The clench of his jaw. The furrow of his brow. The way his eyes look at her, cold like ice but searing into her, right through her, shredding through each and every defense she has until she feels him in her spine. The way he grips the armrests of his chair so hard he nearly tears them off.

He’s resisting. She knows he is. So, she steps just a bit closer.

“What are you going to do?” she challenges, her voice dropping, coming out in a purr she didn’t even know her vocal chords possessed. “Report me? Run away? Act _professional_ ? Yeah, because we’ve been _so fucking professional_ ever since the semester started.”

She gets closer, leans in until she’s at his ear.

“Or, are you going to fuck me? Which is it?”

Tifa feels him shatter right against her. He lets go. He gives in.

“I’m going to fuck you.”

His voice is hard, harsh, tickles at all of her nerves. And she almost can’t believe it, can’t believe him, can’t believe this is finally fucking happening. She can’t contain her excitement, can’t resist the grin that unfurls onto her lips. Something twirls in her abdomen, somersaults, tightens until she feels warmth pool in her core.

Finally, _finally_ , he’s going to give her more. It’s all she’s wanted for a month now.

“But you’re going to get onto your knees for me first, Miss Lockhart. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Tifa smiles at him, rests her palm onto his shoulder and slides it down, down, until it reaches his zipper. There’s something hard under her touch, under the linen of his slacks, and god, _god_ , she truly can’t believe her luck.

She’s going to return the favor. _Finally_.

“Absolutely.”

She’s so, _so_ happy she decided to come here and yell at him.

Tifa gets on her knees for him, comes in between his spread legs, and she likes the way his hand rests onto her head, his fingers wiping away the loose strands of hair in her face. She gets to work on his belt buckle, lets the belt come open, and she drags his zipper down, slow, painfully slow as she watches him, watches the color bloom into the tops of his cheeks. 

God, he’s so fucking beautiful.

When his zipper is open, she reaches into his boxers, and his cock comes into her hold, the flesh hard under her grasp. And yes. _Yes_. Oh god, _yes_.

It’s just like her fantasies. He’s not obnoxiously large, but _lord_ , he is not small either, and she just knows he’s going to fit perfectly inside her. The protruding veins, the head red and leaking at the slit, Tifa sighs, bites her lip and clenches her thighs together, one hand wrapping around the base of him and the other slipping between her thighs. She’s terribly wet, and she knows she is; she can feel herself leaking through her panties already, and she presses the pad of her finger against her hard clit through her leggings and panties.

Fuck. She wants him inside her _so bad_.

The hand on her head gets a bit impatient, pulls her a bit closer to his cock.

“I’m waiting, Miss Lockhart.”

She glares at him.

“Fuck you.”

She dips her tongue out to lick at the bead of precum on his head, and it’s enough to have him jolting, sighing, his hand dropping to curl around the back of her neck. She takes only the head of him into her mouth, suckles softly, her hand gently stroking up and down. And then she gets bolder, takes more of him into her mouth, gets him as far in as she can. Tears bite at her eyes, and she gags around him, her throat closing, but she doesn’t care, because she pulls the loveliest sound out of him, a husked, rumbling moan that flutters into her ears. And she loves it, mewls all around his cock, spit falling past her lips and crawling down his length.

“ _Fuck_ , Tifa,” he says, and _god_ does she love to hear him curse like that. “What are you doing to me? I don’t normallyー” His voice breaks off into a groan as she bobs her head up and then right back down, taking in as much of him as she can. “ーDo things like this.”

Tifa pulls away, keeps her hand on him, keeps her finger pressed against her clit as she looks at him. She thinks of the night he went into the back room with her at the bar.

“Yeah,” she mocks. “Sure you don’t…”

“I don’t!” he argues.

“Because you’re _so_ professional.”

He’s displeased. She knows he is, but she doesn’t really care. She pumps her hand up and down his cock, the skin slick with her saliva, and lightly, she traces a vein on the underside with the tip of her tongue. And his eyes nearly roll all the way back, his head falling against his chair as he bunches his hand tightly into her hair.

“I am,” he rasps. “And I’m responsible. But thisー”

She takes him back into her mouth, hollows her cheeks and nestles him against her throat, and god, she loves the way his composure begins to crumble before her. 

“ _Fuck_. This is...reckless.”

It is. She won’t say it isn’t. She can get expelled. He can get fired. It’s reckless and stupid. But she can’t really care about all of that when she’s thinking with her uterus rather than her brain. And right now, her uterus very much wants him to pound her until she’s seeing stars.

Logic can wait.

And he’s poised. He’s proper. He’s put together, always in his nice shirts and slacks, always takes his class so seriously, was never late even once after that first day. He’s responsible. Cold and authoritative and responsible. Professional.

But that night, he wasn’t. And right now, in front of her, he’s not. And she likes that. Likes that she can make him fall apart like this.

She pulls back just enough to be able to speak.

“Be reckless with me, sir.”

His eyes fog over, losing focus, and he pulls a bit at her hair, brings her closer. And she happily lets him, bobs her head up and down on his cock, wants to make him feel as good as he made her feel that night. She rubs her finger against her clit, his moans light and lilting in her ears, skittering down her spine until they pool into her core.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” he curses. “Tifa, Iー”

She doesn’t get to hear him finish, because there is a very loud knock on his office door, followed by a boisterous voice.

“Cloud, you son of a bitch, are you in there?!”

And when there’s the sound of a door being opened, Tifa finds herself being shoved so quickly she goes dizzy. Panic comes over her, captures all her nerves, and she struggles to stuff all her limbs under the desk. It’s cramped, especially since she’s still in between the professor’s legs with his cock in her fucking mouth.

There’s rustling, footsteps, and Tifa hears two voices, both male and both familiar.

“The fuck are you doin’?!”

Very familiar. Professor Highwind?

“Uh, nーnothing,” Professor Strife stammers, and maybe she relishes in his quiet panic. “What’re you guys dーdoing here?”

Tifa tries to move back, but there isn’t any fucking room, and if she ends up audibly banging her head against the desk, then where will they be? So, she keeps his cock nestled in her mouth, her hand absently rubbing him up and down. His hand comes to search for her wrist, and when it finds it, it wraps around it, halting her movements.

She doesn’t really want to stop, though. Will he be able to keep his control while his colleagues are in the room?

“You were supposed to meet us in the café,” another voice says. Professor Valentine?

“Rーright,” Professor Strife says. “Uh, sorry. I got...distracted.”

 _Extremely_ distracted. Maybe she should distract him even more.

As quietly as she can, Tifa pulls her head back as much as it’ll go with the lack of space, and she brings it back down, over and over again until his thighs are trembling, until his hand is tangling into her hair, trying to stop her. But she won’t stop. And he can’t do much, because what if his colleagues catch wind of what’s happening beneath the desk?

She’s evil. She knows she is. But he deserves it for listening to her masturbate for seventeen fucking minutes.

“Are ya comin’ to dinner with us or not?!” Professor Highwind hollers. Tifa hears the flap of a paper. “I got the coupon right here!” 

That’s on brand for Professor Highwind. Absently, she wonders if she even finished the homework he assigned last week. She’s not sure that really matters, not when Professor Strife’s cock is in her mouth. She likes the way it feels against her throat, would like it even better inside her walls. She’s so aroused she could cry, and she desperately rubs herself against her finger as she sucks on his cock harder and harder. 

She really hopes Professor Highwind and Professor Valentine can’t hear this.

“I’ll—uh, I’ll meet you guys at the re—restaurant.”

He’s struggling to even grind out the words, and oh god, Tifa _loves_ it.

Responsible educators don’t shove their cocks into their students’ faces. Tifa likes that he’s being reckless.

“You good, son?” Professor Highwind asks. “Ya look really red.”

“Yes,” Professor Valentine adds. “Are you feeling ill?”

“I’m f—fine,” Professor Strife says. He clears his throat, tries to gather himself. “Really. I’m fine. You guys go ahead.”

Tifa hears their affirmations, confused but relenting nonetheless. Their footsteps echo away, and she hears the door open.

“That jerk’s acting weird,” Highwind says crassly.

“Indeed,” Valentine replies. 

And then, the door is closed. Professor Strife rolls his chair back, and she’s kind of sad when he pulls his cock out of her mouth.

“I’m going to kill you,” he growls, and _god_ , she loves it when he gets angry. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Fine,” she says, sings as she gets closer, splays her hands over his thighs, dipping down to drop a little kiss on the head of his cock. The way it twitches, the flesh hot and red and wet, she loves all of it. “But can you fuck my face first?”

“No,” he says, heaves out the word. “You wanted me to fuck you on this desk. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

That works. That sounds very, _very_ good. Tifa doesn’t even try to hide her excitement. She shoots up onto her feet, her hands going into the waistbands of her leggings and panties, bringing them down her legs. He stands up and helps her, lets his fingertips drink in her skin as they trail down her legs. He gets the leggings off first, throws them to the side, and then grabs onto her panties. They’re a pale pink, plain and not the most flattering pair she has. If she knew this was going to happen today, she would have worn her nice, lacy ones. She’s sure he would’ve appreciated them.

He looks at the piece of fabric that’s damp from her arousal. And then, he stuffs her panties into his pocket.

Tifa nearly falls over. That’s _hot_. Oh _god_ , why is that so _fucking_ hot?

“ _God_ ,” she breathes. “Why are you so fucking attractive?”

A small smile flirts at his lips, and he pushes his glasses up his nose with the tip of his finger. And it’s fucking unfair, how tightly he has her woven in his clutches. She wants him so bad she thinks she’s going to erupt from the inside out.

So, she settles onto his desk, sits right on his October calendar, and she spreads her legs wide, bares herself entirely to him. 

“Fuck me, Professor,” she says. “Please.”

He’s staring. He can’t look away. Her hand crawls down her body, her fingers coming to part her lower lips, and she puts herself on display, shows him just how much she wants him. She’s so wet she feels herself leaking. 

“That’s sir to you, Miss Lockhart.”

“Sir,” she says,” and she can see the way his eyes glaze over, sees him unravel, his control tumbling away from him. “I want your cock inside me. Please.”

He takes in a deep, deep breath, swallows thickly. He’s snapped. Fully, entirely.

His first kiss is hard, messy with the glasses in the way, and she struggles to keep up with the swipe of his tongue, like he wants to swallow her whole. He tastes sweeter than he did last time, colder than he did last time, and Tifa likes it, feels addicted, mewls into his mouth, wraps her arms around him and gets as close as possible, the plains of his chest hard under her breasts.

She isn’t wearing a bra. And his suspenders are rubbing against her nipples. God. _God_.

He pulls back, has her heaving for breath, his fingers curled around the back of her neck. The pad of his thumb draws tiny, soft circles into her cheek, and his other hand dives under her sweatshirt to palm at one of her breasts, tweaking the nipple between his fingers. And she whimpers, her head lolling around her shoulders.

“Sir,” she says. “I swear to god, if you don’t put your dick in me right now, I’m going to _die_.”

There’s a smirk on his mouth, and it’s the same as the night she met him.

“So needy.”

She frowns. “Shut _up_.”

He dives into her neck, his little chuckle hot and tumbling down her skin in goosebumps, and Tifa holds him close, feels the head of his cock poke against her folds. She instantly jerks her hips into him, and he’s rubbing himself up and down her slit, wetting himself in her arousal, and it’s really, _really_ not what she wants. He’s so close but so far, and she really, _really_ can’t take it anymore.

“ _Sir_ ,” she groans, her voice breaking a bit as he suckles a mark into her shoulder. “Are you gonna make me beg?”

He stops, places a little kiss right behind the shell of her ear.

“Will you beg for it?”

And his _voice_. God, it sizzles through her, and the pleasure clenches painfully in her core, bleeding down her veins until she’s consumed in it.

But she doesn’t want to back down.

“No.”

He gives a little snicker.

He has his cock positioned at her entrance, and he moves it up, lets it rub against her clit, and she jolts, the pleasure capturing all of her limbs, holding her until she goes still.

“Oh my _god_ ,” she breathes. “Maybe I will beg. Please, please, _please_ fuck me. _Oh my god_. _Please_.”

There’s no pride, not when he’s touching her clit the way he is. She’s fine with that.

“Since you asked so nicely…”

He moves away. Completely away. And she nearly has a fucking _stroke_.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a condom.”

Oh. Right. Of course. Protection is important.

She kind of wanted him raw. But it’s okay.

She watches him as he reaches into his wallet, takes out the little square of foil, ever the prepared, responsible man. But he looks at the foil, and his expression falls, his manufactured features molding into horror.

“What?” Tifa asks.

“It’s a ramen noodle flavor packet…”

Tifa absolutely cannot _believe_ her ears. She snatches the foil out of his hand, and, like he said, it’s a flavor packet. For ramen noodles. Instead of the fucking condom they needed so fucking bad.

She wants to punch him in the fucking face.

“ _Why do you have this in your fucking wallet_?!”

“I don’t like the flavors of the ramen they have in the vending machines here!”

She can’t even be mad at him for that. That’s some solid reasoning if she’s ever heard it. But she won’t think about that right now, because there’s a more pressing matter at hand.

“So you don’t have a condom?”

He fiddles a bit with his wallet, and she hates how she’s staring so intently at his fingers, the way the bones ripple under his skin. He looks at her, blinks at her behind the lenses of his glasses.

“No…”

Of course. He’s hard. She’s wet. And they don’t have a _fucking_ condom.

“Well, I got my tests done not long ago,” she says, twiddles her fingers a bit.

“I did, too…” he says, and his voice sounds so small, holds none of the arrogance and hardness it had before. It’s like he switches on and off, and right now, the pouty curl of his lips, the melted ice of his eyes, it’s all kind of troubling. “I’m STD-free.”

Cute. He’s cute. And she really shouldn’t call him that, not when his cock is hard and out of his pants and she’s spread over the desk for him.

“Maybe we should have discussed this before we started shoving our faces into each other’s genitals, Mister _Responsible_.”

He glares at her.

“Shut _up_.”

She giggles a bit, comes close to drop a kiss onto the tip of his nose.

“Fuck me,” she orders. “But don’t come inside me.”

His eyes light up, like the sun has risen.

He throws his wallet to the side, comes close to her again, his hands digging into her thighs. The frenzy, the urgency is gone, and Tifa melts into the kiss he gives her, soft but still driving her manic. The nibble of his teeth, the way his tongue curls with hers, the way he steals all of her breath and soul, she likes it, goes pliant against his body. His cock comes back, rubs against her cunt, gets slick with her arousal, and she wiggles her hips into him, gets impatient.

She chokes on her own breath when he finally, finally, _finally_ , enters her.

And oh my _god_ , it’s even better than she could have ever imagined in her fantasies.

“ _Yes_ ,” she groans, her head falling back. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He fits into her well, so well she’d think he was created for her. She’s so wet she takes him in easily, but he’s still snug, stretches her out, fills her up so nicely her toes are curling, her fingernails biting into his back. She loses focus, her brain melting into mush in her skull, and he’s breathing hard, his forehead pressed against hers and his hands molded into her hips.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, fuck, Tifa, you’re so good. _Fuck_.”

She likes the sound of her name on his tongue, husked and tinged in desperation. Slowly, he drags himself back out, and she feels every inch of him scrape against her inner walls. And then he slams right back in, and she sees stars, her vision whirling, the pleasure bubbling all throughout her body, like she’s drowned in it. She wanted to be bent over his desk. But maybe this isn’t bad either, being so close to him, her legs wrapped around his waist as he ruts into her

She likes this. She likes a lot.

And he hits her at just the right angle, the head of him grinding against that sweet spot inside her, and she nearly falls apart right here and now, her walls clenching around him, her legs beginning to shudder.

“Right there,” she gasps. “Right there, right there, _yes_.”

He leans forward, his palms coming to rest onto the desk as he struggles to stay upright. She moves back, and something hits the back of her head, something hard and sharp.

It’s the cover of a book. Of course it is.

Professor Strife stops for a second, scowls at the books, and then, promptly, sweeps them off his desk and onto the floor with one swipe of his arm. With the books go his cup of pens and some stray papers.

Tifa’s shocked that someone as poised and responsible as him would make such a mess. She looks at him, her brow creasing into her fringe.

“Wow. Is that something a literature professor should do?”

“I don’t care right now,” he groans.

That’s fair. That’s more than fair. It’s hard to care about anything when his cock is inside her.

Tifa lies back on her elbows, and he stands up straight, one palm on the desk, the other pulling her leg up and over his shoulder. And at this angle, _oh god_ , Tifa feels like she’s in heaven. Each stroke of him inside her feels like relief, and he hits her sweet spot _just_ right, and she’s not sure she can handle much more of this. Him filling her up to the hilt, so deeply she feels him in all her bones. The noises, the way his hips slap against her, the way her wetness seeps out of her, Tifa’s climbing and climbing, and something rumbles, something burns and tightens in her core.

“Cloud,” she chants, like she knows nothing else. “Professor. Sir. _Please_ , oh my _god_.”

He goes even faster, his thrusts getting erratic, his nails bitten into the flesh of her thighs.

“Tifa, _fuck_ , you feel so good.”

The hand that’d been on the desk comes in between their bodies, and his fingers begin to rub at her hard clit, wet and quick and Tifa can’t take it, lets the pleasure consume all of her, lets it all go.

“Sir, _oh my god_ —”

“Is this what you thought of while you were touching yourself?”

“Yes,” Tifa heaves, unable to say anything else coherently when he’s rubbing her clit like this. “Yes, yes.”

It doesn’t take long for Tifa to come, long and hard, all over Cloud’s cock. She reaches the peak and she falls right back down, the bliss holding her hostage in her grasp. She feels him in every single one of her cells, his cock inside her, his fingers rubbing at her clit, and she’s shaking under him, her hands holding onto the edge of the desk for dear life. She chokes on her breath, chokes on his name, like it’s a prayer on her tongue.

“Tifa,” he moans, and he gets closer, his thrusts losing their rhythm. “I’m gonna come—”

And he slides out of her just in time, spills onto her, paints her thighs and stomach in his cum. And Tifa lies here, panting, sweating, lets the world come back to her, lets her body recover.

That...was probably the best orgasm she’s ever had. Ten thousand times better than the ones she gave herself as she thought of him. No, maybe a million. A million times better. She can’t even feel her legs anymore.

And he’s struggling to catch his breath as he leans over her, his hair falling into his face, his cheeks alight in a red flush. And he looks so pretty, looked so unbearably beautiful as he came apart within the clasp of her body. He’s so beautiful it hurts her.

It’s over. The pleasure is gone, flees her and leaves her wallowing in the dust. Now it’s just them and their thoughts, the logic they so aggressively pushed away in favor of their desires.

Their desires have been met. Tifa let go. Gave in. And she got what she wanted. It was so, so much better than she could have ever imagined. He kept his promise, let her have more. And she thought that this would be all. She thought she’d be satisfied.

She isn’t. She really, really isn’t. She’s greedy. She wants more. God, she wants more of him.

“You were supposed to bend me over the desk and fuck me.”

“We can do that next time.”

Yes, yes, yes. God, _yes_. She wants him to bend her over the desk and fuck her. She wants him to fuck her in her bed, in his bed, on the couch, in the shower, on the kitchen counter. Everywhere. She wants it all.

They’re not done with each other. Not yet.

Professor Strife, with his fogged-up glasses, looks at her, her spread legs, the cum that’s still on her skin. 

“I’ll...go get a napkin.”

He runs off, his hands zipping his pants back up before going to fix his hair. And she can’t help but find it endearing. Cute. He’s cute.

And _god_ , it’s fucking troubling.

**.**

**.**

**.**

After the fact, they’re submerged in a quiet so awkward it weighs down her lungs. 

“Uh…”

He doesn’t look at her, focuses all his attention on cleaning up the books and pens he’d dropped onto the floor before. She started to help him, but her legs are still a bit sore, her knees especially.

It was so worth it, though.

She leans back against his desk, sits with her legs up. She’s clean now, a bit more put together, as he is. Except for the fact that, well, she isn’t wearing any panties. They’re in his pocket.

Hot. Fucking _hot._

“So...I checked my call log, like you told me to.”

Professor Strife only hums, still does not look at her.

“You listened to me masturbate for seventeen minutes.”

And he goes still. Rigid, like he’s in rigor mortis. The color completely drains from his face.

He abandons the mess on the floor, gets up so quickly Tifa goes dizzy watching him.

“I have to go to dinner now,” he says. “Please send me the corrected essay, Miss Lockhart. I’m not raising your grade just because you had sex with me.”

And he scrambles out the door. Tifa gawks in disbelief, calls after him as he goes.

“You fucking idiot!”

She’s never going to let him live this down.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading i love you <33333


	6. 07-16-11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i love u all
> 
> i was feelin kinda bad and i think it reflected in this chapter so i dont like it as much SJSKSHS regardless i hope u guys enjoy!!! <3
> 
> warning: depressive thoughts

Tifa can’t stop thinking about it.

She feels like a giddy schoolgirl who just got confessed to by her crush. Only this situation is a thousand times less innocent, and she just fucked her literature professor in his office. And she _loved_ it. Loved it so much she wants more.

God. She wants more. It quite feels like she’s addicted to him, and it’s a problem. She no longer cares about how he gave her a C on that essay, how he lingered on the call for seventeen minutes listening to her masturbate, how he’s so fucking irritating when he’s trying to be professional. She can’t think about any of that. All she can think about is his hands on her, how his cock had felt in her mouth, how it’d felt inside her, raking against her inner walls. And the pleasure he gave her, the orgasm that crashed over her in waves, the best she’s ever had.

How he has her fucking panties. God. _God_.

She’s a mess. An absolute mess. She’s at home. She took a shower. She asked Aerith to come over. And she’s still being like this. She can’t believe she’s being like this in front of her best friend.

“Are you okay?” Aerith asks, gives Tifa a quizzical look as she stirs the ramen. Ramen. Ramen noodles.

He had a ramen noodle flavor packet in his wallet instead of a fucking condom. God, she can’t believe how lame he is.

“I’m great.” 

But the smile that breaks into her face, she’s sure, says otherwise.

“Don’t smile like that!” Aerith yells. “It’s creepy!”

“Sorry.”

But Tifa is...happy. She’s strangely happy. So, so happy. And it isn’t a heady, after-orgasm happiness. It isn’t a satisfied happiness. It’s an odd type of happiness. Peaceful, maybe. Freeing, maybe. It’s reckless. It’s scandalous. They’re very well risking their professional and academic careers. Relationships between faculty and staff are absolutely forbidden by the university.

But she doesn’t _care_. She wants him. And she likes this feeling, wants to chase it, wants to cradle it in her being for as long as possible. She feels happy. Likes the way he wiped her up gently after he’d gotten his fill. Likes the way he let her rest against the desk as he cleaned up the mess he’d made on the floor. Likes the way his eyes sometimes melt in front of her, likes how passionate he is about his teaching, likes how he’d gotten them the coffee cans during their tutoring session.

He may be fucking annoying. And he may raise her blood pressure. And she may be hopelessly horny for him and his godly body and face. But still. She feels...happy.

It’s weird. It’s troubling.

“Aerith, I gotta tell you something.”

Aerith hums, twirling her fork into the ramen, probably checking if the texture is right, like she always does. She picks up the noodle, brings it to her mouth, blows on it to cool it down a bit.

“I fucked Professor Strife.”

And Aerith, promptly, begins choking on the noodle.

Tifa panics, slams her hand into Aerith’s back, and the poor girl is rattled to the bone, coughs and coughs until Tifa’s sure she’s dislodged a lung. And when she recovers, tears misting in her eyes from the force of it all, she looks at Tifa, her expression one of shock and pure bewilderment.

“You _fucked_ our Midgar Literature professor?!”

“I did,” Tifa says. And she’s fine with it, strangely. She liked it. It was all she wanted ever since he was a beautiful stranger who walked into her bar. And now that she’s finally gotten it, she wants more. More of the recklessness. More of the danger. More of the passion, of the desire that’s so strong they could not bear to keep away from each other. 

She couldn’t keep away from him. And he couldn’t from her, either. Maybe Tifa did actually win their little game.

“And it was fucking amazing.”

“ _How_?!” Aerith’s voice is high, squeaky in disbelief. The ramen is the least of her concerns; she turns off the stove, and she turns to Tifa. “Why?! Explain!”

“He gave me head in my bar,” Tifa says. “I told you.”

Aerith cocks her head forward, her expression crazed.

“But that doesn’t explain why you fucked him!”

Tifa blinks. The answer is as clear as day.

“He’s hot.”

They have a very strange relationship.

Aerith looks like she’s just run a mile. She sighs, tries to recover a bit.

“Well? How big is he?”

Tifa’s sure she’s giving that creepy grin again.

“Not obnoxiously big. But _god_ , it was _good_. _So_ good.”

“Hold on.” Aerith holds up a finger, and she turns around, grabs a couple of bowls from the drying rack near the sink. She picks up the spoon she’d been using to stir the ramen. “We need some noodles for this. I need all the details.”

Tifa loves Aerith to death. Tifa really doesn’t know what she’d do without her.

(But, she’s sure that if Aerith finds out that Tifa called the professor while drunkenly masturbating to him, she’s never, _ever_ going to hear the end of it.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

On Thursday, Tifa is early to Midgar Literature. She’s never early.

She’s so early that no other student is here. It’s just Professor Strife at his desk, flicking through a novel. _Loveless_ no doubt, the pages bookmarked by little, neon-colored tags, the words drenched in so much yellow ink she wonders how they haven’t ripped and frayed yet. In his right hand is a pen, and he’s fervently writing something down in his notebook. Things to say in his lecture, perhaps. He looks so utterly focused, his brow crunched, the afternoon sun bathing him like a golden halo, and she almost feels bad for interrupting him.

The key word is almost.

“Hi, _sir_.”

She’s still happy. Overjoyed, actually, over the evening they had in his office a couple of days ago. And he looks at her, a scowl etched deeply into his lips, the sun bouncing off the lenses of his glasses until his eyes are drenched in white glitter.

“Miss Lockhart.”

He’s still being professional. Tifa rolls her eyes.

“I had fun the other night.”

“As did I.” He clears his throat, and then, he reaches into his bookbag, pulls out a different bag. A gift bag, and he gives it to Tifa. She takes it, the texture smooth and plastic under her palm. “Here.”

She’s very perplexed as to what this could possibly be. She opens the bag, and oh. Oh.

Her fucking panties. The ones he took.

“I washed them,” he informs. “In my favorite lavender fabric softener. It’s very good.”

 _Oh my god_. He’s such a _dork_. But for some reason, something flutters in her chest. Something whirls, like summer storms carrying her heart away. She doesn’t know why she finds him and his stupid little antics so endearing. He’s...a person, she thinks. More than her professor and educator. More than a beautiful man for whom she lusts after. He’s...human.

He’s adorable. And that fact is troubling.

“Thank you. I guess.”

Although she wishes he’d have kept them. That would have been much hotter, she thinks. Still, she appreciates the gesture.

“Do you want my panties today, too?”

She hears his breath hitch in his throat. She steps closer to him, leans over him, her palms on the desk. She dips her head into his neck, lets her breath fan over the skin, her lips coming over his earlobe, taking it into her mouth and sucking.

He lets out a low gasp of a noise, staggered and breathless. His fingers curl into the hem of her shirt.

“Not now,” he whispers. “We can’t—“

There is a knock on the door, and it frightens Tifa to her very core. She jumps away from him, and he rolls his chair away from her, and she’s so rattled, her heart beating so fast it’ll jump right out of her chest.

Someone walks into the room, the heels of his or her shoes clicking, clicking, clicking. Tifa tries to calm her nerves.

“Professor Strife!”

Tifa’s head jerks to the side, and she finally looks at the newcomer.

Oh no. Oh _god_.

“Miss Scarlet?”

“Tifa, darling!” And by Miss Scarlet’s expression, by her cheery demeanor, she does not seem to have seen anything. But Tifa can never be too sure.

Miss Scarlet can be quite cunning.

“I haven’t seen you in so long!” She splays her hands over Tifa’s shoulders, and Tifa tries to manage a smile, even though she’s uncomfortable with the sudden, affectionate touch. “How are you? How is your father?!”

Tifa winces, and she hates herself for it.

“Oh, you know. Working.”

Always, always, always working. Always gone. Never there. The fucking usual. Why would it be any different?

Tifa lowers her head, suddenly feeling so tired.

Professor Strife steps in, perches his glasses high on his nose.

“Professor Scarlet,” he says, his voice level. “I wasn’t aware that you and Miss Lockhart know each other.”

“Her father and I are longtime friends,” Miss Scarlet explains. “I even worked at his company for a few years.”

Miss Scarlet was at all the work parties, at all the family parties, with her pinned-up, blond hair and lipstick so red it looked like a smear of blood on her mouth. Tifa never quite liked her as a child, never appreciated the kiss marks on her cheeks and the hugs so tight they choked her in expensive yet tacky perfume.

She still seems to like the same scent, Tifa notices blandly.

“He told me that you were a student here,” Miss Scarlet says. “I wish you could have taken my English class!” 

Tifa manages a laugh, but it sounds forced and awkward even to her own ears.

“Anyways, what were you two talking about? You looked rather cozy.”

Tifa’s heart sinks in her chest, and she throws a panicked glance at Professor Strife. He’s composed, keeps his shoulders high, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He does not break Scarlet’s gaze.

“We were discussing the lousy grade Miss Lockhart received on her last essay.”

It’s a good coverup, but why does it irritate Tifa? She’s still mad at him for giving her that C, but well, he did offer extra credit. She’s just too lazy to make the corrections. Damn it. Damn it all.

“Right,” Miss Scarlet says, lets her voice linger a bit on the syllable. And the smirk that coils into one corner of her blood mouth, the knowingness of it, the twinkle in her eyes, it all unsettles Tifa, makes her look down and at her shoes.

Does she know? Did she see something?

“Well, I should get going now.” Miss Scarlet turns away, twirls her fingers over her shoulder in a goodbye. “I’ll see you at the meeting today, Professor Strife. And Tifa, tell your dad I’d like to catch up over a drink soon!”

Yeah, Tifa would if her father was ever fucking home.

As soon as Scarlet is gone, Tifa turns to Professor Strife, the claws of panic wrenching into her lungs.

“You don’t think she saw anything, did you?”

“I don’t think so.” And he’s still stoic, still poised, still level. But he steps back, planting distance between them, and Tifa, her heart dropping into her stomach, steps back as well. “Tifa, we have to stop this. At least until December.”

Someone enters the room in a burst of obnoxious laughter and dizzying noise, but it all falls deaf into Tifa’s ears. The words ring in her skull, pound against the outer membranes of her mind. They have to stop this.

She should have known.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa decides that she’s selfish. Selfish and unbearably _stupid_.

How could she even _think_ to kiss at his ear in broad daylight, right before class started? Why did she do that? Did she even want to try to keep this thing a secret? Because she’s not doing a very good job. Miss Scarlet nearly saw them. Or, she did see them, and she’s just being coy about it. Tifa’s brain begins to buzz, and she can’t even bear to focus on Professor Strife’s lecture. 

If Scarlet does know, then it’s bad. Very, _very_ bad. Oh god. Oh _fuck_.

Tifa’s stupid. Stupid and selfish. She was happy. And she, foolishly, wanted more. She was greedy. And she had no right to be.

She doesn’t really care about herself. She hates school, anyway. But him. He loves to teach, and how could she be so cruel as to take that away from him? 

Right now, in the front of the room, he speaks about _Loveless_ with such rich enthusiasm, the passion bursting through the cool skies of his eyes. He describes one passage from Rhapsodos, picks it apart like a scientist would a specimen, and he loves it. It’s so blatant, how much he loves literature, how much he loves teaching, how much he loves seeing his students do well. And Tifa...can’t ruin that for him. She absolutely can’t. Why should he have to risk something he enjoys so much? He shouldn’t.

She’s going to have to wait until December to get bent over his desk, it seems.

Tifa, quietly, groans, holding her head in her hands. Aerith glances at her worriedly.

“Miss Lockhart.”

Tifa jolts, her head shooting up. 

“Why do you think Lucretia is so drawn to Hojo?” Professor Strife asks. Tifa considers the question. She hasn’t exactly read too much of _Loveless_ , not when there’s so much else whirling around in her dumb brain. But she does know that Lucretia loves Hojo, the mad scientist, and their love leads to the birth of Seph, one of the three main characters of the novel. 

(Thank you, Aerith. God bless your soul.)

“He’s bad for her, and she knows he is.” And the professor’s tone is lilting, plays at the strings of Tifa’s heart, and she likes the slack way in which he stands, his fingers splayed over the cover of _Loveless_ as he keeps it open, the jeans that are molded against the lower half of his form. “So, why is she so drawn to him?”

Tifa takes in a breath that staggers her. _Why is she so drawn to him_.

“Maybe for his intelligence,” she says. “Or his passion. Or his little acts of kindness. Or the fact that he just can’t seem to stay away from her.”

Hm. Why does that sound so familiar?

Professor Strife is silent, seems to be at a loss for words. His eyes are wide, but then, his perfect features melt into the smallest of smiles, the afternoon sun bled into the lines. And Tifa sighs. It’s troubling. It’s all too troubling.

“Very good, Miss Lockhart.”

How is she supposed to wait until December?

“But Hojo isn’t nice!” someone calls out. Tifa looks towards the front of the room, and ah. Of course. The losers. The Clowns who are angry with her because she refused to fuck them.

They always have something to say.

“She’s probably fucking him for a good grade.”

“It seems like it.” And there’s snickering.

Tifa’s frozen. At a complete loss, and she doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know why her world falls still, as if it’s turning without her.

But the stillness is broken by the scraping of chair legs against the floor. Aerith, Reno, and Rufus all get to their feet.

And they’re _enraged_.

“What the fuck did you say?!” Reno.

“Come here!” Aerith. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”

When Aerith tries climbing over the desk, Rufus holds onto her, hooks his arms around hers.

“Don’t,” he says. “I’ll have Dad take care of them.”

Mister Shinra? They’re going to die if Mister Shinra gets involved. But Tifa doesn’t think about that.

She thinks about the words. How they feel like lead weights in her stomach, pulling her down. How they feel like a wound, and they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t be so painful. Why should she care about what those idiots have to say? They’re imbeciles, and their opinions don’t matter, and it’s not true, anyways. She isn’t fucking the professor for good grades.

But she’s still fucking him. She is. Why does she feel...ashamed? Isn’t it what she wanted? Wasn’t she happy about it? So, why does she feel like this now?

“That’s enough.”

And Professor Strife sets down _Loveless_ , walks to the two boys’ desks, stands in front of them. And it’s not really the deep, deep scowl marred into his pretty lips. It’s not the way he crosses his arms. It’s his eyes, Tifa thinks. The coldest they’ve ever been, like she’s being drowned in the arctic, and he takes his glasses off, sighs a bit as he wipes the lenses with the bottom of his tie.

“I’ll give you two options,” he begins, and maybe, his voice is even colder than his eyes. “One: get the fuck out of my class. Two: get the fuck out of my class.”

The students begin to titter, some cooing in awe, some laughing. Aerith begins to shriek.

“Yeah! Tell ‘em, Strife!”

“Struck a nerve, Strife?” one of the losers says. Nathaniel. Or Jonathan. Tifa doesn’t remember. Why should she?

Professor Strife places his glasses back onto his nose.

“Do you really think I’m just going to stand here and let you talk to my student like that? Get _out_.”

“Yeah, get out!” Reno screams. “Don’t make me call Mister Shinra!”

The two losers do not move from their seats. Professor Strife crosses his arms.

“I’m waiting.”

They get up. They leave without another word, mocking laughs following them in their wake. Professor Strife’s voice is dismissive yet still hard, coils through Tifa’s spine in a visceral dance.

“Come back when you learn how to act like adults.”

And it’s his job. Tifa knows it is. It’s his job to protect his students. It’s his job to deal with interruptions and keep the lecture going. He’s a professor. That’s what he’s paid to do. He rolls up his sleeves a bit, and he picks up _Loveless_ , and he begins the discussion again, as if nothing happened. Aerith, Reno, and Rufus sit back down, Aerith’s hand comforting as it comes to wrap around Tifa’s. And Tifa just sits still. Lingers in a world that seems to have stopped turning.

It’s his job, so why is she feeling like this? So...troubled. So _stricken_?

They really, _really_ need to stop this.

**.**

**.**

**.**

It’s another one of those days. Solemn. Alone. And this day stretched, and it stretched, and it stretched, and it isn’t even over, but she can’t bear it, feels like she’s stuck to one spot, vines woven around her feet to keep her in place. And the world keeps turning. It keeps going, passes her by, and when she reaches out, she can’t even hope to catch it. People move on. They go about their lives. They go to school and work and they pay their bills and they eat and sleep because they have to. What else are they going to do other than live?

Tifa hates it, hates it all, because she has to live. And it’s the one fucking thing she never thought she’d have to do without her mom.

And it’s stupid. It’s all stupid. It’s been nine years. July 16th. Nine years ago. That’s when it happened. That’s the day Tifa woke in the morning and found out that her mom would never, ever be coming home again. That’s the day everything crashed, everything fell apart, and she didn’t yet know her dad would hardly be coming home, too.

That was the day the loneliness started. And it’s so fucking stupid, because shouldn’t she be used to this by now? Shouldn’t she move on and try to live like normal fucking people do?

She guesses she isn’t so normal.

It’s raining today. Of course it is. It comes, pours down, hits the ground like bullets in a warzone, and it doesn’t relent, not for anyone. Tifa walks out of the campus’ main building, and she lets the rain soak her to the bone, touch her all the way down to her soul until she’s quivering. Of course it’s raining.

She wonders if that little river by Aerith’s building is flooding over. Maybe it is.

“Miss Lockhart?”

The sudden call of her name startles her. Tifa looks up to see a car, streetlights painted onto the sleek black of it in a blur of circles and brushstrokes. And then, there’s no rain pounding on her, not anymore.

Professor Strife stands in front of her, holds an umbrella over her head.

“What are you doing? You’re going to get sick.”

Ah. Getting sick was the last thing on her mind.

“What are you doing on campus? It’s Wednesday.”

He frowns. “I was seeing a friend.”

Highwind. Or Valentine. Or maybe both. The last she’d seen them…

Right. She didn’t exactly _see_ them. She heard them. While she was under Professor Strife’s desk, sucking him off.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.

“You’re soaked,” he says. Yeah. Yeah, she is. “Come on. I’ll drive you to where you need to go.”

And here, now, she finally gets a good look at him. His hair is intact, perfect, unruly spikes, untouched by the rain’s wet fingers. Of course. He’s poised. Stoic. Proper. Professional with his nylon raincoat and glasses and umbrella. His features, the softness of them, the prettiness of them, the shadows of them are blurred before her eyes, drenched in dancing lights, and his eyes sparkle with them, the cold canvas of blue, melting and melting until she’s drowned in it.

He’s so beautiful. And it _bothers_ her.

“There isn’t really anywhere I need to go.”

“So, I’ll drop you home,” he says, and he opens up the door on the passenger’s side of his car. Tifa steps forward, her chest freezing over, a tremble coming into the tips of her fingers.

“No,” she says. “No, I don’t wanna go home.”

White walls. Quiet. Chaotic thoughts. Alone. Alone, alone, alone.

Not now. Not tonight.

Professor Strife pauses. He looks at her for a long, heavy moment.

“Tifa.”

Her name. On his tongue. It feels so much sweeter to her ears, cotton candy blooming in her skull, and she hates it. She fucking hates it.

“All right,” he says. “Hop in. I know where we can go.”

And she knows she shouldn’t, but Tifa gets into his car with him, closes the door, wets the leather underneath her. And she doesn’t care, not right now.

She kind of feels like she’ll collapse if she keeps thinking any longer.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Professor Strife takes her to a coffee shop.

It isn’t too far from campus, so she wonders why she never knew about it. It’s...cozy. Small yet cozy, the walls made of cherry wood, flower paintings hanging atop sconces, each lit with little, flickering candle flames. Jazz and blues tones gently play at the edges of her ears, and there hangs a stillness in the air, less unsettling and more peaceful, flooding her soul with a kind of quiet she hasn’t had in ages. It chases away the violent thoughts, just for a little while.

She’s grateful for it.

Tifa tugs at the blanket swathed around her form, brings it a bit closer. Of course he had a blanket in the trunk of his car. He’s always prepared.

(And yet, he couldn’t have put a damn condom in his wallet. She scoffs at the thought.)

“Here.”

He jogs back, places a wide, round mug and saucer in front of her on the table. Hot chocolate, he had said, to warm her up. He takes his seat, and he holds onto his own cup, brings it slowly to his lips to take a sip.

“What is that?” she asks.

“A cappuccino,” he says. “Three teaspoons of sugar.”

Tifa purses her lips. “You seem like the black coffee type.”

“Oh, I am.” He places the cup onto his saucer, and there’s a thin, white mustache of coffee foam on his top lip. His tongue comes out to lick it away, and Tifa lets a smile spread onto her mouth. Cute. He’s cute. “But sometimes, even I have to indulge.”

She won’t argue with that. Sometimes, poised, professional men like him just have to fuck a student on top of their desks and _indulge_.

She won't think about it right now.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I think I did.” He leans forward, rests his chin into the palm of his propped arm, and he looks at her. Candlelight waltzes in his eyes, winks through the lenses of his glasses. “You’re my student. I have a duty to take care of you.”

“I’m okay, though.” She molds her hands around her mug of hot chocolate, her skin drinking in the warmth. Her fingertips are still wrinkled over from the rainwater. “Really.”

He shouldn’t have to take care of her. Barret shouldn’t have to take care of her.

“You didn’t look okay, Miss Lockhart.”

Tifa goes quiet, finding it difficult to argue with him. She picks up her hot chocolate, and she takes a long sip, feels the warmth burst through her like fireworks, instantly soothing her jittering bones. It’s good hot chocolate. Of course it is. It’s a nice coffee shop. 

“Thank you for the hot chocolate.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tifa watches him sip at his cappuccino, his lithe fingers curled around the handle of the mug.

“It’s pretty late,” she says. “Won’t you be up all night after drinking that?”

“I have to be up all night regardless,” he says simply. “Got a lot of work to do tonight.”

She knows she shouldn’t feel guilty, and she knows he isn’t trying to make her feel guilty, but she feels it anyway.

“Then you should go. I’ll be okay. You’ve already done enough.”

“You’re more important.”

Her heart stammers, jumps into her throat to choke her.

“I’m not going to leave until I’m sure you’re okay.”

 _Don’t say things like that. Please_.

Tifa hides the tremble of her lip behind her mug.

“Then what do I do to convince you that I’m okay?”

He leans back, crosses his arms, hums a little. Then his features glisten in a smile, soft and lovely on his mouth, and she can’t handle it, feels all the wind knocked out of her. She feels troubled. Stricken.

“I don’t know. Hit on me?”

She snorts. But he laughs, and then she laughs, and it’s one from the deepest parts of her soul. One that rattles her entire body, and maybe, maybe she actually is okay. Maybe she is feeling a little better. Maybe the chaos in her skull is gone, just for a little while. 

She’s okay, because he’s here.

And _god_ , it worries her.

**.**

**.**

**.**

On Thursday, Tifa is early to class again.

Today, Professor Strife is hunched over his desk, hand wrapped tightly around a foam cup from a nearby chain coffee shop. His pen flicks restlessly through his fingers, and when he looks up and at her, there’s darkness wrinkled under his eyes, his features hard and sluggish, and instantly, she feels guilty. She knows she shouldn’t, but she took up his time, and she feels bad about it. He had work to do.

“You don’t look so good.”

“Thanks,” he replies mockingly. The words that came out of her were wrong, because in her eyes, he always looks good. Even when he looks like he’s near death and hasn’t slept in a year. He’s still painfully beautiful, and for some reason, a smile curls onto her lips, one that slipped right past her better judgement.

“Sorry. I just…”

She thinks of that rain, the weight of it heavy on her senses. The umbrella above her. The blanket swathed about her form. The hot chocolate, how it soothed her from the inside out, tasted so sweet she felt drunk off the high. And she thinks of dazzling sky eyes, the streetlights playing with the lines of his irises. The foam mustache on his lip. His laugh, smooth and husked and like melodies in her ears.

Her heart quivers in her chest.

“Thanks. For yesterday.”

It’s hard for her to express just how much his kindness means to her. She was a couple of minutes away from visiting that bridge above the river.

“It’s not a problem,” he says, and he sets down his cup. His eyes look a tad bit more alive, the October sun stolen within the lenses of his glasses. “I care about you, Tifa.”

There it is again. Her given name on his tongue. _I care about you_.

She really wishes he’d stop saying things like that.

“Which is why…” He trails off, gets up from his chair, and it goes swiveling in his wake. He leans back against his desk, crosses his arms, and Tifa, shamelessly, ogles his arms. The strength of them, he muscles bulging beneath the restrictive silk of his button down. The veins crawling down his skin, his rolled-up sleeves, his glasses perched on his nose. And it’s a complete change from what she was feeling yesterday. She’s feeling...hot. Bled in fire. Something twirling in her core.

Ah, yes. She nearly lost sight of the foundation of their very odd relationship.

She wants him to stuff her like a Thanksgiving turkey.

 _God_. Why is she like this? Wasn’t she sad just yesterday? Is she ovulating? Is that what it is? Why does he look so beautiful even when his eyebags have eyebags? It makes no sense.

“I’m setting up a tutoring session, so I can prepare you for the _Loveless_ quiz next week.”

Wait. A quiz? A fucking quiz? Why didn’t she know about this?

“Don’t look so surprised. I reminded you all last week, and it’s on the syllabus.”

Right. Well.

“I don’t exactly listen to you much in class…”

Because she’s always too busy drooling over him. She lives a sad reality, truly.

“As your professor, that wounds me.”

“You _know_ why.”

There is a long moment of silence. His stare lingers on her a bit too long, and then, he looks away, coughs into his hand.

“Yeah. Well, this tutoring session is mandatory. Check your email.”

There he goes again. Avoiding her. Running away. Tifa feels like there’s so much between them, so many words that need to be said, so many things that need to be discussed. And yet, she says nothing, stands there idly, takes a conscious step away from him, logic coming back to hit her like a stroke of lightning.

She wasn’t able to think much about this when she was sad and soaked in the rain. But now, she thinks. And she thinks too much. If anyone finds out about them, he’s going to lose his job. She doesn’t care about herself. But he loves his teaching so much, and she can’t bear the thought of him losing it. Especially because of her.

And yet, why, why can’t she just fucking stay away from him? Why is this so hard for her? Is she a child who knows no self control?

Why does she still want him? So carnally she doesn’t know what to do with herself? Why does she feel so troubled? So stricken? _I care about you, Tifa. I’m not going to leave until I’m sure you’re okay._

It’s exhausting. It’s all so exhausting.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i got a lot of shit from someone on twitter about this story. not only did they bash the premise and tifa as a character, they also came for me and my integrity as a person and a writer. i felt really down about it especially since my mental health is bad and i have really bad self-hatred issues. also since im writing tifa based on my own struggles with depression back in college, it hurt a lot more lmao. i took it personally, even though i shouldn't have. but it's okay, because i've realized that it's not their opinions that matter. it's you guys who still continuously love my fics and support me who matter. logically none of what the person said about me and this story was even true, anyway. i just wanted to say thank you for reading this story, for commenting on it, for giving me ideas, and for sharing your personal professor and teacher stories. it really means the world to me. you guys truly do make me so happy, and i'm so glad i get to share my writing with you.
> 
> anyways enough gushy shit thanks for reading i can't wait to write more Sex <3


	7. misbehaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY FUCKING REPLIED TO SOME COMMENTS HALLE FUCKING LUJAH
> 
> seriously though i just need to talk about how.......awesome.....all of you are. like idk what amazing deed i did in a past life to deserve such sweet and incredible readers like you. you guys are the best and really do make me love writing and posting. im sorry im so bad with replying to comments but i want you to know that i hold every single comment i get very close to my heart. thank you <333333
> 
> enjoy the sexual tension so thick it made me violently ill while writing it
> 
> also special thanks to my lovely friend maxfieldparrishes for the amazing ideas <3

Professor Strife isn’t in his office. Tifa finds this to be odd.

She walks in, and his desk is untouched, clean and organized as if he hasn’t used it a day in his life. Behind her, there’s a rustle, a rumble, shuffling, and then, a scream.

“I’m free!” the kind, older lady in the English department shrieks. Tifa catches the tail-end of her skirt and cardigan as she rushes out of the room like she’s being chased by a rabid dog. “Fuck this school!”

Tifa stares. And she blinks. Okay.

She shuts the door to Professor Strife’s office, and something nudges at her nerves, tells her she shouldn’t be in here without his presence or permission. But the less logical part of her likes the risk, likes the danger, likes the feeling of breaking the rules, of doing bad, forbidden things. And this desk looks so _nice_. So clean. So organized. His pens and books and folders all meticulously, thoughtfully placed. The cup of pens towards the right, so his right hand can grab one whenever he needs it. The picture frames angled towards the left, so his laptop screen doesn’t block them. The large, October calendar, filling up the expanse of the desk, today’s date neatly circled in red marker. What’s today?

She isn’t sure. But wouldn’t it be fun to _mess up_ his desk a little?

The thought of it has her core clenching, warmth pooling between her thighs. The ache consumes her, comes over her brainstem until it’s all she can think about, controls her like she’s starving. And she needs to be sated, needs something, wishes he was here to satisfy her the way she wants to be satisfied.

But he’s not here. And his desk is _right there_.

Tifa lifts up her skirt, takes off her panties and leaves them to hang from her ankle as she settles onto his desk, spreads her legs and places her feet on the armrests of his chair.

He won’t mind if she does a little bad thing, right?

And she’s _so_ wet. So, so wet, and she doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, how he has her so tightly woven in his spell. Her mind spins in him and him only, his eyes and arms and features and voice, everything she loves about him, everything that drives her mad. And her hand glides down her body, stops to palm at her breast through her shirt, and god, she wishes it was him. She wishes it was him.

“Sir,” she moans out, and there’s no one around to hear her. The lady ran away, and Tifa doesn’t have her phone on her. No accidental phone calls, not this time. So, she lets her mind wander shamelessly, towards the night they first met, towards the night he fucked her hard on this very desk. And her hand slides even further down, two of her fingers parting her folds. She looks down, and they’re glistening, puffed and inflamed and her clit is hard, begs for only one person’s touch. God, what she wouldn’t do to feel his tongue down there again.

_Ride my face. Don’t get shy now._

God. _Fuck_.

Tifa rubs at herself urgently, lets her legs come further apart. She’s quick and fast, the grip of her fingers harsh on the edge of the desk, so harsh the wood may splinter. And it’s not his fingers, not his tongue, not the head of his cock poking at her, torturing her deliciously. But it’s all she has, and she rubs quicker, the even circles she had losing their poise and rhythm, and she begins to crack, right atop his desk, her thighs trembling.

“Sir,” she chants, like she knows nothing else. At this moment, she doesn’t. Not really. “Sir, _sir_.”

“Yes?”

Tifa stops. Her heart stops in her chest, her breath stops in her lungs.

“What is it, love?”

The door of his office is open. He stands with his arms crossed, leans against the door frame, watching her. And, strangely, she isn’t mortified. She isn’t scrambling to get off his desk and make herself look decent. She does none of that.

She stays still, with his gaze on her, rippling and pressing into the marrow of her bones. She lets out a little, breathy noise as he begins to walk towards her.

_Touch me. Please, please touch me. I want you._

“Go on.”

Her heart falls apart in her chest.

“Continue,” he says, and it’s an order. The hard, authoritative edge to his tone tells her that he will not be argued with. He adjusts his glasses with the tips of two of his fingers. “You were having so much fun, getting off on my desk, right, Miss Lockhart? So continue.”

Tifa bites at her lip.

“No, sir. I want you.”

“Continue,” he says again, harder, deeper, burns low in the pit of her stomach. “I won’t say it again.”

God. _Fuck_. She moans loud, shameless and loud.

_Scold me more._

He steps in between her spread legs, but he keeps his body far from hers, and right away, she bucks closer, seeking the warmth of him greedily. But he stands firmly away from her, lets his hand touch no part of her other than her wrist. His fingers wrap around it, slowly beckoning her to move her hand in circles, like she’d been doing before.

“Touch yourself,” he growls. “Come all over your fingers. Finish what you started.”

She’s begging, keening for his touch, would do anything to get his hands on her. But she succumbs to his will, lets herself be molded under his mercy. And at the beckon of his hand, she touches herself, rubs against her clit, the nub throbbing under the hard press of her pruned fingers. And she’s choking out moans, her voice crumbling in her throat as the pleasure builds and builds, and under his careful watch, she throws herself further into the fire of her peak.

“Cloud, _Cloud_ ー”

His nails dig into her wrist, his grip so hard it halts her completely.

“No,” he rasps. “Bad girl. What do you say?”

“Sir,” she breathes out, her body beginning to rattle. “Sir, sir, _sir_.”

He chuckles, and it’s a warm caress on her neck.

“Good girl.”

And his hand moves her wrist faster, and she’s grinding against her own fingers, and soon enough, she’s unraveling with a guttural squeal right from the depths of her lungs, her body quivering, her world dyed in bursting stars and the ice of his eyes, rumbling through her like she’s fallen into a frozen lake. She feels all of him, in every single cell of her body, overtaking her every sense. His hands on her. His stare, cold on her spine. His cock raking against her, touching her limits. And she doesn’t want it any other way.

He presses his forehead against hers, soft as his palm cradles her cheek. And his words are visceral, miles and miles away from the gentleness of his touch on her.

“Such a dirty little slut. Making a mess on my desk like this.”

Tifa looks down, and she’s leaked onto his October calendar, formed a pretty little puddle right on the last week. And she doesn’t _care_.

It was worth it.

Professor Strife comes close to her, starts unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, and she would be frothing at the mouth in excitement, if only, if only…

There wasn’t a giant, upright walrus in the room.

“What the fuck is that?” But Tifa’s question goes unanswered as Professor Strife loses himself within her, kisses her throat and sinks his cock into her. And Tifa wishes she could focus on it, but she can’t, because the fucking walrus is dancing to a trot tune now, and she doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Yeah!” someone yells. Professor Highwind? “Hell yeah, you fat fuck, dance!”

“That’s not nice to say.” Professor Valentine? 

And Tifa’s _so_ confused, because why isn’t Cloud stopping? Why is he fucking her even though his friends and a fucking _walrus_ are in the room, watching them? 

And that isn’t even the part that troubles her the most. No, it’s Professor Strife’s words, drilling themselves into her ears.

“I love you, Tifa,” he gasps, thrusts into her harder. “I love you so much.”

Tifa wakes with a jolt, shaken to her very core. Sweat clings to her in a wet film, and for some reason, she’s panting, like the air is too thick for her to breathe. She looks around, and she isn’t in Professor Strife’s office, making a mess on his desk. She’s in her bedroom.

And, well, she’s made a mess on her _bed_. Tifa lifts her blanket, finds that her arousal has leaked past her shorts and onto her thighs and bed sheet. She’d felt the shockwaves of her orgasm come over her in her sleep, her mind wandering and wandering as she balanced carefully on the precipice between consciousness and unconsciousness. And she’s never felt anything like it, the intensity of it, curling through her like fingers pulling at all of her organs.

Professor Strife. Walking in on her touching herself on his desk. Holding her wrist firmly as he ordered her to finish what she started. 

And the fucking _walrus_. And Professors Highwind and Valentine. And Professor Strife continuing to fuck her despite it all. God, what the fuck did she eat last night in order to have a dream like that?

And the worst part? 

He said he loves her. The words echo through her head, a cruel joke.

No, no, no, what the fuck? No. _No_.

“It was just a dream,” she mutters to the silence around her. An absurd dream. With a dancing walrus. Why would she give it any merit?

Why is her heart pounding in her chest? Why does she want to believe those words as truth?

Tifa groans, goes to lift herself from her bed but finds the wetness on her thighs to be...troublesome.

She should forget about the _I love you_. Yeah. That was stupid. A stupid thing her stupid brain needlessly conjured. Yeah.

What she should focus on is him calling her a dirty little slut for making a mess on his desk.

And before she knows it, her hand is back in her shorts, her fingers touching at her throbbing, engorged clit.

Even though she’s going to be late for class. It’s Friday.

Fuck. Tifa’s a fucking _mess_.

**.**

**.**

**.**

She can’t stop thinking about the dream.

The dancing walrus aside, Professor Strife’s words are gnawing at her conscience restlessly. Why would he say that, even if it was just a dream? Here, in Aerith’s dorm room, as her friends are being stupid and yelling, Tifa thinks, holding the chocobo plushie against her chest. She rethinks everything, her mind spiraling, wandering so far she can’t even hope to catch up to it.

Their relationship is...weird. She knows it is. But it was always supposed to be a physical thing. A heated, carnal, sexual attraction. That’s what it’s been ever since she took him to the back room at her bar. It was supposed to be physical. Sexual. Lust. Just lust for the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. And yet...and yet.

He cares about her. Too much, if she says so herself. Tutors her because he wants to see her do well. Buys her coffee cans and hot chocolate. Kicks rowdy students out of the class because they were disrespecting her. Takes her to a coffee shop and comforts her when he knows she’s sad. And it’s troubling. It’s too troubling, when he gives her his little, soft smirks. When he stands in front of the class and pours his heart out. When he looks at her, strips her of her defenses, those cold, melting eyes, hidden behind the lenses of his glasses. Tifa feels troubled, and it’s overwhelming, this whirling in her chest, stubborn storms that have come over her heart.

No. No way. She wouldn’t…

She...can’t. He’s her _professor_. And he’ll lose his fucking job if anyone finds out about this. She knows they have to stop this, to stay away, at least until December. She knows. So then, why is she still being like this? Why, why?

Why won’t this troubling feeling go away?

“Tifa, are you okay?”

Elena’s voice pulls Tifa out of the realm of her thoughts. She comes back to the surface, just in time to watch Zack, begrudgingly, hand over this week’s bet money to Reno. Ah, yes. Reno and Elena are back together.

This week, it must have been the Burberry coat Elena has on. Winter fell upon them suddenly, pushing fall away and dousing the word in bone-quivering temperatures. 

And Tifa thinks. She thinks too much.

“You’re thinking so hard you might break your brain,” Elena laughs.

Elena. Reno. They can’t stay away from each other. They always go back to each other, even though they know they’re bad for each other. 

_Why is Lucretia so drawn to Hojo?_

“Elena,” Tifa says, and she turns her head to face the blonde. “I have a question.”

“It was the coat this week,” Elena says, snuggles a bit into the expensive felt. Tifa blinks, and then, she shakes her head.

“No. Not that. I…”

Why can’t Tifa just stay away?

“Why do you keep going back to Reno?”

Tifa may not know Elena as well as her other friends. But right now, she’s completely transparent like water, her eyes glazing over as her heart settles into her sleeve. The soft smile. The longing gaze at the redhead who, currently, has Zack in a chokehold.

“I love him,” she replies.

And that’s it. It’s as simple as that. She loves him. She loves him?

_I’m not going to leave until I make sure you’re okay._

Oh no. Absolutely not. No, no, no, no, no, _no_ . No. _Fuck_ no. _No_.

She doesn’t love her fucking professor. That is fucking ludicrous, even for someone like her. No. No way. 

It’s the lust. It has to be. That’s why she can’t stay away from him. Yeah, that’s it.

Tifa’s had boyfriends before. Even had a little fling with Rufus back in freshman year. But she’s never been in love. She doesn’t know what love is.

But what she does know is that _this_ , whatever weird thing this is, is _not_ it.

She won’t let it be. No sir. No _way_.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa’s fretting. Why is she fretting?

This is stupid. So fucking stupid. What is she doing? It’s just a tutoring session. On a Saturday night, because it’s the only time he’s free this week, as he’s a very busy, hardworking, professional man. It’s just a tutoring session in the campus library. He’s going to prepare her for the _Loveless_ quiz next week, and that’s all.

So, why the fuck is she standing in front of her mirror, draped in only her towel, holding various outfits in front of her form to gauge how she’d look in them?

She groans. She’s so _stupid_. She should show up in sweats and a hooded sweatshirt, like she always does. But no. Some annoying, illogical part of her insists that she dress up. For him. She wants to look nice for him. She shaved in the shower. And she used her best, vanilla shampoo. And she rubbed her favorite, rose lotion into her skin. And maybe she dabbed a bit of eyeshadow and lipstick onto her eyes and lips. And maybe she’ll use her fanciest, most expensive perfume after she gets dressed.

And maybe, she’s a fucking _idiot_. No, she knows she is. She’s an idiot who’s treating a tutoring session like a fucking date.

For some reason, she can’t help it. She really can’t.

She settles on a dress, not too formal, not too casual. The skirt flows, the hem of it kissing just above her knees. And maybe it isn’t the best choice as winter takes its reign, strips the trees of their life and pulls her breath out of her like smoke. But, well, sometimes, it’s okay to sacrifice practicality for the sake of fashion.

And plus, her tits look _amazing_ in this neckline.

Tifa slips on some booties, swathes herself in a long coat and scarf, grabs her backpack, and runs out of her house.

And god, why does it feel so much like a date? She’s stupid. So stupid.

(If he asks, she’ll just tell him she has somewhere else to go afterwards.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

When Tifa arrives at the library, Professor Strife is, of course, already here. She expected nothing less from someone who’s never late to anything (well, except that first class). He’s drenched in a long, winter coat, leaned onto the front desk, chatting with the librarian, gray hair and kind eyes that make Tifa feel safe. Rosa, her name was?

“Ah!” Her eyes light up like the rising sun. “Tutoring another student, Cloud?”

Professor Strife looks at Tifa, pushes his glasses up his nose. Tifa can’t help but cling to the fact that his stare lingers far too long before he looks back at Rosa.

“Yeah. She needs it.”

Tifa rolls her eyes. “You’re the one giving us a quiz.”

“I’m your professor,” he says, sounds a bit defensive but there’s a cadence to his voice, sweet and light on Tifa’s ears. “I have to test your knowledge.”

“Whatever.”

Rosa gives a tinkling laugh. “You know, he’s always tutoring students here. He cares about them so much!”

“I just want them to do well,” he says, and Tifa hasn’t a doubt about that. She knows. She knows he wants all his students to do well. It’s one of the reasons why he’s such a fantastic educator.

He’s an educator. Her _professor_. Yes. Of course. Stay away. _Stay away_.

She takes a conscious step back.

“Ready?” he asks, and she nods. She follows him to a table towards the back, not too far away from the one they’d sat at during their last tutoring session. It was last month, but for some reason, it feels so long ago. What’s changed?

Well, for one, he fucked her atop his desk. That’s a big change.

Tifa doesn’t think about it.

He takes off his coat, settles into his seat, and she does the same. And when she rests her coat on the back of her chair, she can feel his gaze on her, searing through each of her cells. Perhaps he likes the dress. Or the way her breasts look in the dress. Whatever the case, heat begins to bleed in her chest, flickers all the way to the tops of her cheeks.

She wanted to look nice. For him.

“You look incredible,” he says, clears his throat as he shimmies his chair closer to the table. “Got a date tonight?”

His eyes go wide, like a deer caught in headlights, like the words slipped out without his permission. He turns away, fumbling, stammering.

“Sーsorry. I'm sorry. Don’t answer that.”

Cute. He’s so cute.

“I mean, it _is_ Saturday night,” she says, lets the words come out of her in a teasing song. “Normal people would be on dates. Not tutoring a student in the library.”

He scowls. “I told you in the email: this was the only time I had available this week.”

A smile curls onto her lips. “Right.”

But something occurs to her. Does he have a date tonight? It’s possible. He’s dressed a bit more casually than he normally is in class. A loose, turtleneck sweater made of thick, navy yarn, his jeans black and fitting to the shape of his legs. He wears a watch on his left wrist and, of course, his thick-framed glasses, high on his nose.

And there’s that cologne again, the one that hangs onto every single one of her senses, drives her mad. Cool, hypnotizing mint that spins about her head, and god, she loves it, feels drawn to it like she’s an animal in heat. With him, she always feels like that. Greedy. Needy. Hot, like she’s on fire.

Professionally, of course. In a professional way.

She only realizes now that she’d leaned into him during her admiring of his scent. So, she moves back, careful to keep distance between them.

December. Until December.

“Do _you_ have a date tonight?” she asks absently. “Got a girlfriend?”

This question strikes him, and she sees the change in his normally calm expression, the change in the lines, how they get stiffer.

“Of course not,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t have fucked you if I had a girlfriend. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

Tifa draws absent patterns onto the surface of the table with the tip of her nail. “It’s just...you’re too attractive to not have a girlfriend.”

The words spilled past her lips without her permission. And she wishes she could swallow them back, take them away. Not because she’s trying to keep her distance and stay professional until December. Not because she’s wary of him losing his job.

Those words feel heavy in her chest. Taunting her. Mocking her. Troubling her.

_No, you don’t want to be his fucking girlfriend. Shut up. Stop it._

“I think we should talk about _Loveless_.”

Yeah, she thinks so too. 

(But she doesn’t miss the little smile carved into his lip.)

He opens up his notebook and his copy of _Loveless_ , marked-up and drenched in yellow ink. Tifa takes out her own copy, barely opened, barely even touched, really. She flips to all the pages he tells her to, listens to him intently as he speaks to her, a drastic change from how she is in class. In class, her mind wanders and wanders, to the veins in his arms, to the way his ass looks in his slacks. But here, now, in the deafening silence of the library, she can only listen to his voice, the smooth, soothing timbre of it lulling her into a state of utter peace. She feels nice, listening to him as he tells her all about _Loveless_ and what makes it so incredible.

“And the Gift of the Goddessーspoilersーisn’t money or fame. It’s happiness. Living peacefully and happily after the war.”

And Tifa smiles. Small but content, maybe. Happiness. Living happily and peacefully.

She takes in a fragmented breath. Yeah, that’s about right.

“What’s wrong?”

She hums. “What?”

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

She shakes herself out of her smile, blinks a bit at him.

“Like what?”

Professor Strife tucks his bookmark into the spine of _Loveless_ , and he shuts the novel.

“I didn’t answer your question,” she says. He looks at her curiously. “Don’t you want to know if I have a date tonight?”

He looks away, perhaps at the librarian, far away at her desk. There’s no one else here; what student would be in the library on a Saturday night if exam week has passed?

“No, because that wasn’t very professional of me to ask.”

Right. Of course. Professional. Distance. They’re supposed to be keeping their distance. 

But there’s no one here. It’s just them. And the heat inside her is maddening.

“Are you curious?”

“What if I said I was?” She can’t read his expression. Nor can she detect just what’s laced through his tone. Something rough. Something hard.

Something that tells her he himself doesn’t want to wait until December.

“If I said I did…” And Tifa lets her voice dance around him, stays away from him, maintains the distance. “Would you be mad?”

“Of course not.”

And now, _he’s_ closing the distance. _He’s_ coming closer, leaning in, maybe entranced by the scent of her perfume. Maybe lulled by the lingering lift of her voice. He’s leaning in, and she does, as well, _Loveless_ be damned.

“What if I said that I don’t have a date, and I dressed up because I wanted to look nice for you?”

His breath trembles in his throat. This look, she recognizes. The lust hazed into his ice eyes. The color coming to burst into his cheeks. The way his fingers weave tightly around the leg of his chair. This, she all recognizes.

He’s breaking. Again.

“I’m flattered,” he says, and surprisingly, his voice is level. “You know what else had me flattered?”

He comes closer, nuzzles a bit into her ear, and she, almost nervously, chances a glance at Rosa.

Who’s peacefully slumbering away, her head leaned back on her chair, her mouth wide open.

Yes. Good.

“Listening to you get off to the thought of me.”

And it’s Tifa’s breath this time that staggers in her throat, her heart rumbling, a pleasured wave stroking at all of her veins. She’d been drunk and sad and needy, called him by accident, came to the thought of him, the thought of his hands and mouth and cock. And he _listened_. For seventeen minutes, he listened.

“Did you like it?” she asks, and she lets her hand drift up his arm, until her fingers are curling around the back of his neck. He kisses her right underneath her ear.

“I loved it.”

His hand comes to cup her thigh, his fingers barely grazing the hem of her dress.

“What did you think about?”

It’s hard to focus on the question when his thumb is pressing firmly into her inner thigh, painting little, intricate circles on the flesh.

“All of you,” she answers breathlessly. “I want all of you.”

His hand sneaks higher, disappears under her skirt, and she can feel the coolness of his fingers seep into her though the thin lace of her panties. But he doesn’t touch her, not yet.

“What do you want?” he beckons, sinks his teeth into her shoulder as he does, and it takes all her will to stifle a cry. “Tell me what you want me to do to you, Miss Lockhart.”

Tifa sighs, melts into him and his touch.

“I want you to fuck me,” she gasps. “ _Hard_. Use your strong, two fifty-arms to pin me against a wall. Bend me over and call me your dirty little slut. Spank me for not listening to you in class. Fuck me, over and over, until I can’t walk straight. _Please_.”

There’s a hard, consuming ache inside her, and each stroke of his fingers, each puff of his breath against her neck feeds it, like gasoline on a fire. She feels like she’s going to explode.

He lifts his head. Looks up to find the librarian asleep. And he pulls Tifa in for a kiss so hungry it knocks the wind out of her.

“Fuck,” he mutters, punctuates the word with another kiss. And another. And another, thrusts his tongue into her mouth, has her mewling, folding against him. “Fuck, Tifa. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I think about is you.”

She sighs as he takes her bottom lip between his teeth, bites and then suckles the pain away.

“I want you,” he rasps into her mouth, holds her cheeks with both of his hands. “So _fucking_ bad. I don’t know why I can’t stay away from you, even when my job is on the line.”

He kisses her manically, swallows whatever response she had, and she very well begins to lose her mind as well.

“One more time,” he says, maybe like an order, maybe like a plea. He trails open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, down her neck. “One more time, and I promise, I’ll leave you alone until December.”

One more time. Once more. She’s fine with that. Completely fine.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. One more time.”

They scramble to get up, to gather their things, to fix their disheveled selves. She throws on her coat, and he uses his to hide the tent in his jeans. And they rush to his car, jog with urgency, because right now, they know nothing but the need that pulses within them. All she wants is his hands on her body.

And she should have known. Of course. Of course this would fucking happen.

As soon as they’re out of the building, attacked by winter’s cruel winds, he stops. And Tifa stops next to him.

“Wait. IーI didn’tーthis looks bad. I didn’t order this tutoring session because I wanted to do this.”

She quirks her head a bit, finds humor in the panic of his voice.

“Oh. Really?”

“I’m serious!” He looks very much like a kicked puppy. “I really wanted to prepare you for the quiz!”

“Well, you can prepare me more,” she says, lets her fingers drift down his arm, watches the gooseflesh rise in her wake. “ _After_ you fuck me.”

He nods, almost eagerly. And she doesn’t blame him. How can she, when she’s the exact same way? They’re supposed to be keeping their distance.

They _really_ don’t know how to behave around each other.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading i love u all dearly <333333


	8. over 9000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i for once dont have much to say here i love u enjoy the filth <3
> 
> these two are fuckign hornballs

They’re not even in the car for five minutes before Cloud begins to touch her.

One hand on the wheel, one hand on her thigh, and Tifa’s addicted to the sight, doesn’t even care about the winter air lashing at her exposed skin. She’s in flames, drenched in lava, and every single one of his touches tosses her further and further from her control. She likes the image, sears it deeply into her memory: Professor Strife driving, maneuvering the steering wheel with one arm, the outline of his profile stark against the streaking lights painted behind him. His hand trails higher and higher on her thigh.

“Spread your legs,” he orders.

 _God_ , he’s attractive.

Tifa obliges immediately, spreads her legs, her knee pressed against the window. She gives him all the access he needs, and she watches his hand disappear under the skirt of her dress, feels the tips of his fingers imprint ice into her most delicate flesh.

His index pokes at the damp fabric between her thighs. She didn’t even realize how wet she’s gotten when he’s barely even done anything to her. It seems to be a recurring theme when it comes to him. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.”

She can’t bite back the snark in her reply. “I know.”

“Needy, are we?”

Her gaze leaves his face, drops to the front of his jeans.

“Don’t talk to me about needy when you had to wrap your coat around your waist to hide your erection.”

The latter half of the last word lifts into a sharp yelp when he presses his finger into her clit.

“Sorry, what was that?”

She hates him. So much.

And she doesn’t know how he can focus on driving and not getting them both killed when he has his hand under her skirt. His touches are slow, too methodical when his attention is supposed to be elsewhere, his fingers massaging the folds hanging over her clit, indirectly stimulating the hard bundle of nerves until she’s ripping through the seatbelt on her chest with her nails. It isn’t enough, isn’t close to being enough, especially with the lace in the way. Tifa’s greedy, and she wants more. So, so much more.

“Sir,” she whines, sounds like a brat even to her own ears. He makes a rather sharp right turn, and when she jolts, his thumb bumps against her clit. She moans out, bucks her hips to seek more. “ _Please_.”

“Don’t _say_ things like that,” he says, grinds out the words as his grip on the steering wheel gets so tight his knuckles are white. “I’m gonna crash.”

She turns to him sharply.

“You’re the one touching me while you’re driving!”

He rolls to a stop at a red light, and he finally turns to look at her, the sun in his eyes setting, a dark film of lust coming to settle over them. He moves his hand away from her, instead holds his palm out, wanting.

She frowns. “What?”

“Panties.”

 _Oh my god_. Oh god, oh god, oh god, that’s _hot_. When he’s not being an idiot, he’s the hottest man who’s ever lived, she thinks. _God_. 

She shimmies out of her panties, as well as she can in the seatbelt. And she gasps when the cold leather hits her hot, inflamed flesh, unconsciously grinds a bit against it, missing the press of his fingers. She bunches her panties into a ball, the lace wet with her arousal, and she drops them into his palm.

And as the light turns green, as he starts to zoom down the street, he shoves her panties into her mouth.

Tifa, as loud as she can, moans around the faux gag.

“ _God_ , you’re so fucking hot.”

The words are muffled, barely coherent, but they pull a content, arrogant smirk out of him.

“Quiet, Miss Lockhart.”

She obeys, only because his fingers are skimming back up her thigh. She moves her dress out of the way, looks down and wiggles her hips impatiently as his index finger dances over her skin, avoiding the one place she needs it the most. She pulls at her folds, exposing her hard, aching clit, and he _barely_ grazes it, just barely, and it’s enough to have her bending her spine, to have her panting around her panties.

“Fuck, Tifa,” he curses, his voice hot, breathy. He presses the pads of his fingers against her clit, and finally, _finally_ , he begins rubbing at it, slow, careful patterns, starting from the top and making her jerk, and then going down, resting them underneath it. “Grind against my fingers.”

And Tifa holds his wrist firmly in place, does as she’s told and rolls her hips against his fingers. The build is slow, excruciating maybe, because he doesn’t move his hand; it’s just her grinding against him, gyrating her hips into him, and she gets higher and higher on the climb towards her bliss, clings to his wrist desperately. He dips his hand lower, and now it’s his palm against her clit, and this feels _so_ much better, steadier, firmer. And she feels her peak come into reach, feels the familiar pressure weighing down her core. It’s _right there_ ; one more roll and she’ll be sent over the edge, and she’s moaning shamelessly around her panties, spit crawling down her chin as she chases her high.

And right when she’s there, right when she’s about to burst, he forces his hand out of her grip, and he moves it away.

She very nearly begins to cry.

“ _Cloud_!”

“Not now,” he orders, wags his finger at her, the same finger that had been on her clit, now wet with her juices. “When we get to my apartment, I’ll make you come over and over.”

He brings his hand to his mouth, licks her wetness off his fingers and palm with his tongue.

God. _God_. Tifa’s losing her fucking mind. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to wait much longer, because he pulls into the parking lot of his apartment complex. He tugs her panties from her mouth, pockets them immediately, like she knew he would.

And they all but run into the building, run into the elevator, can’t bear to keep their hands off each other for even a second. He kisses her messily in the elevator, breaks apart only when the doors ding open. And she chases him down the hallway, feels relieved when he stops in front of a door and gets his keys out of his pocket. 

When they get inside, there isn’t time for her to admire the modern yet simplistic décor of his living room. No, she’s too busy getting out of her dress, and he’s too busy getting his sweater off. The yarn catches onto the silver pierced into his left ear, and he gives a sharp, high yelp, one that has Tifa erupting into laughter.

“Don’t laugh!” he whines. “Help me!”

She’s done this her fair share of times before, gently picks the yarn off the stud. And he throws the sweater away, arms coming around her to get her closer. As close as possible, like their bodies are melding into one, and Tifa sighs into his mouth, feels content, likes the drum of his heartbeat against her chest.

There’s that feeling again. Peaceful happiness. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her.

Their clothes come completely off, and they make a trail toward his bedroom in the back. He’s gentle when he pushes her onto the bed, crawls over her, cages her body between his knees and elbows. And he doesn’t break away from her mouth, drowns her in his kisses, and she willingly flounders in them, curls her tongue around his, sighs when he nips at her bottom lip, suckling on it.

He pulls back, straightens his arms and looks at her. They failed to turn on the light, and he’s framed in a silver glow, the moon cradling him so delicately within its fingers, brushing the edges of his silhouette in glitter.

“Sorry. I know you wanted me to pin you against the wall, but I don’t have that much stamina. Even if I do bench two-fifty.”

Tifa gives a snorting laugh.

“That’s okay.” Her fingertips draw patterns over his shoulders, eagerly drinking in the skin. She realizes now that this is the first time she’s seen him bare. His arms are lovely even without fabric molded against them, his biceps strong, rippling. His abdomen is firm, and Tifa lets her hands drift over the muscles, takes in as much of him as she can. Unruly hair, paralyzing, striking eyes, blurred behind the lenses of his glasses. They’re falling off his nose.

He, angrily, takes them off, throws them into some far corner. The crunch of glass doesn’t sound too nice. 

He blanches.

“Fuck. I definitely broke them.”

She laughs. 

“That was rather rash of you, Mister Responsible.”

He pouts.

“Shush.”

And he dips back in to kiss her, greedy, wanting, lets go to paint her jaw and throat in open-mouthed kisses, soft with the lash of his tongue. And Tifa melts into the sheets, melts under him, goes pliant under him.

He’s so beautiful. So achingly beautiful, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

Professor Strife travels down, leaves kisses in every crook and crevice of her body, makes sure her breasts get the most attention. One in his hand, the other in his mouth, his teeth latching lightly onto the nipple, and he sucks. Sucks and sucks as he looks at her through his blond lashes, and she’s mewling, feels the flesh pucker under his touch. She fidgets, lifts her leg and is met with the evidence of his arousal, hard against her knee.

She wants it. So, so bad.

“ _Sir_.”

“Not yet.”

He takes his time. Leaves her breasts and drops kisses down her stomach, his fingers still twirling at her nipple. He dips his tongue into the divot of her hip bone, bites a mark into the skin right above her belly button, and Tifa can’t handle it, the anticipation, the way her pussy is aching, throbbing, begging for something, anything.

And she groans in relief when he settles onto the floor, hooking his fingers underneath her knees, bringing her legs apart. He peppers kisses onto her inner thighs. Yes. _Yes_.

She hasn’t felt his tongue since that night at the bar. And _god_ is she excited.

But he doesn’t start. Not yet.

“Tifa, is this okay?”

The sudden, loaded question catches her off guard.

“Of course,” she says.

“It’s just...you weren’t doing well the other night.”

The rain. The solemnity. Alone, alone, alone. 

The river flooding over.

She won’t think about it.

“I’m okay, now.”

Tifa’s fingers flirt at his fringe, swiping it away from his eyes. Those same fingers grip onto his chin, bringing him closer to her wet core.

“Now, _please_ make me come. I can’t take it anymore.”

His chuckle is hot and breathy on her lower lips, and her toes begin to curl. 

“Such a needy little slut.”

Tifa moans. She’s heard him call her that in her fantasies. But none of that compares to the real thing, the low, husked gravel of his voice humming through her senses like a beautiful bass. Yes, she’s a needy little slut. For him. Only for him.

She wants to be _his_ little slut.

“Cloud—”

Any thought she had falters when he drops the tiniest of kisses onto her clit. Yes. _Yes_. 

Everything else can wait.

He goes down to her slit, the pads of his fingers pressing into her lips, spreading her apart as he dips his tongue into her. In and out, in and out, and she likes the feeling of it, the way it wiggles, the way he tastes her, eats at her as if he’s starved and she’s the first meal he’s had in months.

“Fuck,” he groans against her. “You taste as good as I remember.”

Tifa mewls, buries her hands into his hair, incessantly tugs at the strands. She lets her nails scrape against his scalp, and she revels in the breathy moan that rumbles against her thigh.

He goes back to her clit, and when she looks down, she meets his eyes, bright with the moon’s tears in them, so piercing, so striking they burn through her spine, swallow her up whole. His fingers come up, lifting her folds so her clit is revealed, the nub hard and swollen. His tongue comes out, licks at her clit, and her head falls back, her eyelids falling closed as she lets herself drown in the feeling.

His tongue is just as good as she remembers. So, so good as it licks at her, flattens against the underside of her clit. She rolls her hips into his mouth, grinds her mound against him much like she’d done in that back room weeks ago, tugs at his hair restlessly as the peak comes back into her reach. She’s too wound-up from before, as he stole her orgasm right from under her, but now, she’s edging closer and closer to the precipice, starts wailing, writhing.

“Sir, _sir_ , oh my _god_ , fuck. _Fuck_!”

She can feel him smile against her.

“Language, Miss Lockhart.”

And then he takes her clit into his mouth, sucks on it, hot and wet and messy and Tifa loses it right here and now, explodes from the inside out, falls right off the edge. She comes with a long whine of his name, her hips rolling into him, stretching out the bliss as much as she can. And he lets her, keeps sucking even as she sees white fireworks, even as the colors leave her world, and she’s panting, spent like she’s run a mile.

He always, always makes her come so good. She doesn’t know what incredible deed she did in her past life in order to deserve Professor Strife’s orgasms.

He pulls away, his face glistening in her juices. He absently rubs his thumbs into both of her thighs.

“You’re so cute when you come.”

It makes her swoon just as much as it makes her ache for more. And he gives her more, drops quick, little pecks onto the tip of her clit, and she jolts away, overwhelmed in the sensations. She’s horribly wet, horribly sensitive, but when he comes back to suck on her clit again, she doesn’t push him away.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, going manic with the mixture of pain and bliss. “I love you. _Oh my god_.”

His low chuckle reverberates within her.

Cloud’s tongue flicks at her clit, settles onto the underside of it, the feeling sharp, clawing through her. On the edge of the bed Tifa’s legs begin to quiver, and his hands come to hold them in place. And soon, the soft, wet press of his tongue ebbs away that sharp feeling of pain, and he laps at her gently, takes his time in slinging her towards another release. Her body turns to jelly, and she opens her eyes to look at the white paint of his ceiling, takes deep, aching breaths as the pleasure mounts and mounts.

“Sir,” she whimpers. And he sucks at her clit again, and again, and again, and she’s floundering, urgent as she pulls at his hair, that familiar build coming back to gnaw at all of her nerves. He doesn’t relent, his lips clamped around her clit, and with one more suck, Tifa’s thrown over the edge again, this one long, a grueling hiss that starts in the core of her being and then rumbles outwards. “God, oh my god. _Oh my god_.”

Tears bite at her eyes. She’s overwhelmed, her body in spasms as her world comes back to her, as her brain comes back to her. She recoils from the lash of his tongue, moving her hips into the bed in order to retreat. But _god_ , it’s so, so good. _So_ good. She lies here in the aftermath, sweating, heaving, blinking as her hands unfurl from his hair.

She might have to marry him, honestly.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m waiting until December,” she says, her voice hoarse from her cries of pleasure. “I want you to do that to me every day.”

He gives a hearty laugh. With one more kiss on her inner thigh, he lifts himself from the floor, comes back onto the bed and over her. When he kisses her, he tastes entirely of her, but that cold sweetness of him still lingers, and she chases it with her tongue, feeling quite addicted.

She lifts her leg, and she feels it again, his cock hard, leaking against her skin. And she’s impatient, her walls aching to feel him rake against them.

“Fuck me,” she rasps. “Please.”

He looks at her, and the smile he gives her is faint but still so cheeky, so delighted, childlike and so, so unfitting for their current situation.

“I’m prepared this time.”

He reaches into the drawer of his bedside table. Ah. Yes.

The ramen noodle flavor packet. She still has nightmares.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you just kept ramen in there.”

“I don’t!”

And out comes the desired little square of tin foil. A condom. Wonderful. But Tifa looks at it, finds it to be distasteful. 

“You actually do have one,” she hums. “I’m impressed. Too bad we don’t need it.”

His eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Yes. I’m on birth control.”

“Tifa.” And his voice is level, sober. She doesn’t like the sternness of it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” And her hands grab at him, thirsty for his skin. She pulls him in for a long, lingering kiss. “I’m prepared, too.”

He blinks at her slowly. 

“So, can I come inside you?”

Tifa lets a grin break onto her mouth.

“I encourage it.”

The utter glee in his expression almost makes her burst into laughter. He throws the condom away, gets on top of her again with an urgency. Before he’d been slow, and now there’s a haste to all of his movements, his hands molding into her skin, enough to hurt, but she likes it, gasps into his throat and arches into him. They’re a mess of hands and lips, their limbs tangling together, and Tifa doesn’t know anything but the head of him poking at her folds, stroking them.

Yes. _Yes_.

And when he finally slides into her, her walls coating him in her welcome, she can’t help but think about last time, how it felt the same but different. This, his cock inside her, her walls fluttering around him, the pure bliss, the bone-rattling orgasms, those are all the same. But the way he nuzzles into her shoulder, the way he chants her name, the way he holds her so close he can’t bear to let her go, this all feels a bit different.

It’s, dare she say it, romantic. Intimate.

And there’s that troubling feeling again, her heart jumping about her chest like it’s caught in a storm. She thinks of all that he is, the beautiful stranger in the bar. Her professor, her superior, her educator, someone who loves to teach as much as he loves to breathe. She doesn’t think about him losing his job, doesn’t think about her dad and Scarlet, doesn’t think about all that’s ever made her sad.

Tifa feels...safe. At peace. At home, but how, when she’s in his apartment? It doesn’t make sense.

Most of all, she feels happy. A little more sane. A little less empty. Not alone, not anymore.

And this shatters her.

“Cloud,” she whimpers, and her voice breaks a bit, and she surrenders herself to the pleasure, to the stroke of him inside her. He gets impossibly close, lifts her legs so they hang over his shoulders. And he gets _so deep_ , reaches the furthest depths of her, hits her at an angle so perfect she’d think him her soulmate. 

_I care about you, Tifa._

She closes her eyes, and she grips onto him for dear life.

“You’re so good,” he says, tattoos the words into her skin. “Fuck, Tifa.”

And his pace, soon, loses its rhythm, and he begins to lose himself inside her. And Tifa loses something too, climbs higher and higher towards another peak, one that’s deep in her core, one that only he can reach. Him. Only him.

He’s so, so beautiful. So lovely while panting above her, his hand grabbing at the bedframe for dear life as he rolls his hips into her. 

“I’m gonna—”

He dips his head into her neck, and she hugs him close to her, feels every inch of him inside her. He gets faster, faster, and her nails bite into his back, and it’s so good her thoughts leave her in a scramble, and she has nothing but the weight of him atop her, his cock railing into her.

“Tifa, _Tifa—_ ”

Cloud comes with a staggered breath, deep, deep inside her, and she feels the spill of his seed, how warm it is against her walls. And this throws her over the edge as well, this orgasm like long, ocean waves rippling down her veins. She’s shaking hard, her lungs bled of their breath, and the only thing that keeps her grounded is the feeling of his hands on her, his kisses on her throat.

And when he recovers, when she recovers, he collapses on top of her, his cock slipping out. In his wake his spend drips out of her, coats his sheets in a mixture with her arousal. 

Yes. Good. She’s _so_ glad she’s on birth control.

He collapses next to her, his head nestled into his pillow. Tifa collapses as well, her limbs like jelly, her thighs sore and sticky in the aftermath. She’s still trying to gather her wits.

She’s still trying to understand just what she’s feeling.

“Tired already?” he asks. She purses her lips.

“You made me come three times.”

“That’s not even that much.”

God. _Fuck_. He’s an angel sent from heaven above. 

“Maybe we should go a few more rounds.”

His tone is light. teasing, his hand coming to play with a strand of her hair, rolling it over his knuckles. Tifa hums, feeling lulled, so calm her world feels like it’s shut down around her. Her eyes flutter closed.

“Mm. That’d be nice.”

“Don’t fall asleep. I still have to prepare you for the quiz.”

Tifa’s eyes shoot open. He’s leaned onto his propped elbow, his palm against his cheek. And he’s looking at her with lazy lids, the lift of his lips cheeky, a smile that soaks dizzily into her consciousness.

He’s so beautiful. It’s almost unbearable.

“Do we _have_ to?”

But she still doesn’t want to study for that fucking quiz.

“Yes!” He’s back to Teacher Mode. Tch. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“I don’t know,” she says, rolling onto her stomach and snuggling into the pillow. She won’t get up even if he begs. “All the sex made everything become kind of a blur.”

He glares at her.

“I hate you.”

Tifa gives a bouncing laugh. 

Quiz seemingly forgotten, he snuggles into the bed with her, molds himself into her side, drapes his arm over her back. He’s close, and like this, she can drink in the warm of his form, feels the hard planes of his body against her skin, feels the steady, melodic thrum of his pulse. And something begins to stagger within her. Burns and bursts like a storm. It feels nice, and his scent is threaded into the fabric of his pillow case, and she feels heady, sleepy, at ease.

Happy, maybe. Too happy.

It’s worrisome.

Tifa’s thoughts escape her as she drifts off, stumbling into a welcoming dreamland.

All while in his arms, listening to his even breaths.

**.**

**.**

**.**

In the dead of night, Tifa wakes again.

She’s not sure why. At first, she’s confused. This isn’t her bed; those aren’t her curtains. And then it all comes back to her, flashing against her eyes like blinding lights, pieces and pieces of memories barely strung together by the haziness of her waking mind. Only the feeling of the warm arm bent around her torso keeps her coherent.

He has not let go of her all night.

Blearily, she notices the very first bursts of the sun, her world drenched in pale, pastel purples as the night begins its flee. Sunrise. It’s almost sunrise. That’s good. She has a lot more time to sleep. The fatigue feels like lead weights in her eyelids, and she’s too tired to even lift her head, much less the rest of her limbs.

Two rounds. Two rounds with Cloud were enough to have her down for the count. He made her come so many times she couldn't even keep track. He worked her body so well she wonders how she ever managed to settle for anything less from a man in the past.

(And if he’s willing to go for another round, she’ll be just as enthusiastic.)

Tifa wiggles a bit closer to Cloud, molds her back against his chest and presses herself firmly into his form. Her eyelids flutter closed again, her body begging to be back into the peaceful cradle of sleep. But her mind doesn’t let her, because something occurs to her.

It had been Saturday. Now, it is the very early hours of Sunday.

She was supposed to work last night.

“Fuck,” she curses under her breath. “Fuck, _fuck_!”

This is bad. This is very, _very_ bad. Barret is going to fucking _kill_ her.

She’s a mess. An utter disaster of a human being.

She pulls away from Professor Strife, immediately misses and craves the warmth of his body. She flings herself closer to the edge of the bed, her hands blindly feeling around the carpet for her smartphone. In the blur of her memories, she remembers the phone falling off the bedside table.

(Because Cloud was fucking her so hard. Damn it.)

“Tifa…”

Cloud hums into the pillow, his voice birthed from the deepest cave of his chest, rumbling and coated in sleep. His hand reaches for her, his palm flat against her back. She doesn’t pay him any mind because she can’t fucking find her phone.

God. She was so busy getting fucked that she didn’t even remember to call out of work.

“What are you doing?” 

“Looking for my phone,” she grumbles. Now her body is half off the bed, and any wrong movement will have her tumbling onto the floor. And she still can’t fucking find her phone. 

Finally, finally, the device comes into her grasp. She tries to get back onto the bed, wails a bit, and Professor Strife helps her, pulls her by the elbow. Tifa’s on her stomach now, leaned onto her elbows as she swipes the screen of her phone unlocked, the brightness of the screen biting at her darkness-soaked eyes. She squints at the phone, reads the notifications like they’re taunting her.

Two missed calls from Jessie. Three from Biggs. Four from Aerith. And _seven_ from Barret.

That’s not even the worst of it. There are _text messages_.

Oh no. Oh _god_. Barret is going to murder her. Not for missing work. But for not answering. He gets very worried.

It’s nice of him, to worry about her. He shouldn’t have to.

Tifa shoots him an apology, says she’s okay and she’s just not feeling well. And she sets the smartphone back onto the bedside table, facedown.

Professor Strife looks at her curiously, the sun rising in his eyes.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes,” she answers. “I skipped work last night.”

Suddenly, he’s far more alert, and he lifts his head from the pillow.

“Oh no,” he says. “Oh god. I’m sorry. I didn’tーfuck, if I knew you had work…”

“You wouldn’t have fucked me then?”

Tifa’s voice is teasing, jovial, her fingertips dancing at his shoulder, the warmth of his skin soothing her from the inside out. He wraps his fingers around her wrist, brings her palm to his mouth and kisses it gingerly.

Her breath hitches. God, he’s so beautiful.

“I would’ve,” he answers, frames the words against her hand. “ _After_ you got out of work.”

Tifa gives a little giggle. She dips close, uses the hand he’d been holding to grip his chin, slides her mouth over his. He gets greedy, comes in to give her a longer, lingering kiss, swipes his tongue across the seal of her mouth. But she doesn’t let him break it. Instead, she pulls away, grins a bit at him.

“No,” she says. “Your breath stinks.”

It’s cute, how offended he is.

“So does yours!”

She laughs at him. He pouts, his brow pulling into a frown, and then he comes closer, kisses her again, lazy but it drives her manic, how heady his kisses make her feel. It’s the dead of the night, and the sun isn’t even here yet to keep watch over them, and Cloud’s hands begin to wander, under the blanket and over the curve of her bare form, and her breath quivers, her body igniting yet again in a lustful fire.

For the third time tonight. She wants him. Again, as if no fatigue rests in her limbs, as if she hasn’t had him twice already. He’s just as eager, presses himself close to her as they lie on their sides, his arms coming to wind around her torso.

Something hard and wet is poking into her thigh. Tifa breaks his kiss, breathless and wanting.

“Again?” she says, and maybe she shouldn’t talk, because she feels herself getting wet again, as if her thighs aren’t already sticky with the remains of her arousal and his spend. “And you said you didn’t have a lot of stamina.”

He scowls. “I don’t.”

Tifa thinks he’s a liar, because he lifts her leg up, and he sinks his cock into her, and there seems to be no lack of stamina here at all. Cloud fucks her hard, as if it’s not four in the morning, as if they haven’t gone two rounds before this. He has all of the energy, his fingertips digging into her thigh, his thrusts erratic, void of the rhythm they normally have. Her pussy is aching, her clit even more so, but she welcomes him, welcomes this, the way the head of him scrapes her walls rendering her a spluttering, panting mess.

He’s a liar. His stamina is over nine thousand.

And in the very beginning of morning, as the coming sun drenches him in orange light, touches the edges of his face like he’s a flower blooming in a burning city, Tifa holds him close, her senses heightened yet dulled, like everything and nothing is happening all at once. And when her peak comes within her reach, it sneaks up on her, coils through her nerves like a quiet hiss. He gets faster, harder, holds her close, and she loves it, takes it all, gets wetter and wetter with each thrust, her walls lubricated in the cum he’d spilled into her before. His arm slips between their bodies, his thumb coming to rub at her clit, the nub sensitive but still needy, still engorged, and she gives a sharp yell, the pleasure in her core tightening and tightening.

“Cloud,” she gasps, holds his face close to hers. He presses his forehead against hers, lifts her leg a bit higher, and she clenches around him, gets so tight she begins to see stars. He gets so deep all of her bones are rattled, and with the flicks of his wet thumb on her clit, Tifa finally lets it all go, lets her body reach the height of bliss again. She doesn’t even remember what number this is. This orgasm thrums through her, plays her body like strings, and her nails dig into his shoulder, her mouth caught around his name.

Cloud, Cloud, Cloud. When did he become Cloud and not Professor Strife? She doesn’t know.

The pleasure leaves her in shambles, and she’s writhing, trembling. He keeps going, seeks his release within the confines of her body. And she lets him, lets him fuck her so hard the headboard knocks against the wall. Maybe he’ll be hearing complaints from the neighbors later, but she doesn’t really care.

And he’s so _pretty_ when he comes. Tifa just looks at him, drinks in the features of his face, mars it all into the deepest recesses of her memory. Cloud unraveling inside her, gasping her name like a fervent prayer, his fingers clutching her so hard there’ll be marks later. The flush bled into his cheeks, the stars that flee his eyes, the sun glowing on him, kissing him in a halo. He’s achingly beautiful, and she whimpers as she feels him spill his cum into her, deep, deep within her. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, Tifa, what are you doing to me?”

She wishes she knew. She wishes she knew what he was doing to her, as well.

When he’s finished, he slides out of her, but he keeps her leg raised, his eyes trailing down to look at her cunt, spread wide with his seed seeping out. She likes the feeling of it, being coated in his cum, and he seems to like seeing it, his eyes glazing over, losing their focus.

“Tissue,” she pipes. He blinks. And then, he nods, hurriedly grabbing one from the box on his bedside table. Cloud wipes her down gently, knowing she’s sensitive, and she jerks a little bit when the tissue comes in contact with her clit. It’s almost maddening, how many times he made her come tonight. She doesn’t even remember the number.

He’s too good for this godforsaken world. How the fuck is she supposed to wait until December? 

He tosses the tissue into the tiny garbage pail near the door, and he slumps onto his back, covering his face with his hands.

“I’m going to lose my job,” he groans. 

Tifa shimmies closer to him, presses a light kiss into his forehead, tucking his fringe behind his ear.

“Only if someone finds out,” she says. “No one will.”

She’s sure of that. No one is going to find out. After all, this is going to be the last time. Until December. They’re going to behave until December. They have to. 

Tifa feels her heart crack a bit, settle into her stomach. And she doesn’t know why.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3


	9. chapter four, page thirty-three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone ilysm
> 
> this chapter isn't my best work but i really like it for some reason uwu
> 
> stay tuned for a very important end note!!!

Tifa stands in Professor Strife’s bathroom, and she thinks.

Okay. Everything is fine. This is okay. So what if she spent the night at her professor’s apartment? So what if he fucked her and made her come so many times her brain turned to mush? So what if he held her close all night and didn’t seem to want to let her go? So what if she’s still here, washing up while he throws together a breakfast for them? So what?

It’s fine. Everything is fine. They are doing this professionally. Yeah, it’s so he can prepare her for the _Loveless_ quiz. Yup. So it’s fine.

Tifa stares at her reflection in the mirror, the girl in the glass blurred by steam and water droplets, looks unfamiliar to her eyes. And she groans, her head in her hands.

Goddamn it. Fuck. Shit. They were supposed to wait until December.

_One more time, and then, I’ll leave you alone._

Bullshit. Because they went three rounds, and she’s _still here_. 

And the worst part about it? She doesn’t want to leave.

_Stop. Don’t think about that._

She won’t think about that. Or the way she felt in his arms, like their souls were melding into one, like her heart was cascading, caught in storm winds. Peaceful. Safe. Happy.

_Don’t think about it._

Tifa takes the towel he gave her, runs it over her head, wrings the tips of her hair dry. She smells so thickly of _him_ , the ocean of his shampoo, the mint of his body wash. It’s okay, she thinks. As good as bath products marketed for men can be. What the fuck is _cool charcoal ocean_ even supposed to smell like? What does that even mean? She doesn’t know, but she used it. And she’s swathed in his clothes, fresh from the dryer, pretty lavender woven into every fiber of the fabric. His favorite lavender fabric softener, he’d told her.

He’s such an idiot. Tifa smiles softly.

She looks around, maybe for some body lotion, because apparently, her skin does not like men’s minty body wash, and she feels like she’s crackling. But she can’t really find any lotion, only sees some face wash, shaving cream, moisturizer, and hair gel near the sink. She thinks to open the cabinet behind the mirror, but maybe that’s an invasion of privacy. So, she leaves the bathroom, thinking that she’ll ask him for some lotion.

Maybe he’ll offer to lather it onto her skin. It’s a nice thought.

_No, stop. Bad Tifa._

She waddles into his kitchen, and even though he isn’t much taller than her, his sweatpants are far too long, trailing over the floor as she walks. His shirt isn’t much better, and she feels like she’s drowned in the cotton. He’s at his stove, a pan in his hand, something sizzling and crackling into her ears. She comes behind him, gets on her tiptoes to lean over his shoulder.

He finally notices her, gives her an almost panicked look over his shoulder.

“Help,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And that’s evident by the potent burning smell that hits her nostrils right now.

“Oh my god, turn it off!”

He flounders a bit, but he turns off the stove, and the remains of what look like eggs lay in the pan, burnt black around the edges. It’s unsalvageable, and it’s quite the pitiful sight.

Tifa sighs, coughs a bit as some smoke bleeds into her lungs.

“You don’t know how to make eggs?”

His expression is a mixture of defensive and apologetic. 

“Not really...I don’t really, uh, _know_ how to cook.”

This fact shocks her, and she very well feels like her world is melting.

“You don’t know how to _cook_?!”

He flinches a bit, looks like a lost puppy.

“Uh...no.”

“You live by yourself,” she says. “You’reーhow old are you?”

He twiddles his fingers. “Twenty-six…”

Hm. Only five years older than her. “And you don’t know how to cook?”

“I can cook some things.”

Tifa crosses her arms. “LIke what?”

He fumbles. “Uh...rice.”

She glares. “I can cook rice in my sleep. Next.”

He looks so deeply troubled she almost wants to burst into laughter.

“Um...toast?”

“Move.”

Tifa’s had enough of this, gently pushes him to the side and goes to the stove. She grabs his pan, walks towards the garbage, and disposes of whatever catastrophe he had going. She drops the pan into the sink, and she grabs the sponge he keeps by the faucet, lathers it in orange-scented dish detergent.

“Let me handle breakfast,” she says. “I cook really well, actually.”

Although she appreciates his attempt. It’s cute, how he tried. But he’s a mess, and she’d rather not burn the apartment complex down.

Professor Strife leans onto the countertop, watches her scrub at the pan.

“Who taught you how to cook?”

It’s an innocent enough question. Fitting for the conversation. He’s just curious, and she knows he is. But Tifa doesn’t like this question, because it reminds her that no one was there. No one was ever there, not since that day, nine years ago. No one. Her aunts and uncles, they didn't care. Maybe they sent her a dish of casserole once every blue moon, and that was all. Miss Scarlet didn't care, either, stopped showing up ever since her dad started wasting his life away at work.

Tifa was alone. And she had to fend for herself. 

“I taught myself.”

And that’s it. The words come out colder than she wanted, bitten around the edges, and she scrubs at the pan harder, tries to get up all the soot. Through the corner of her gaze she can see his mouth open, but nothing comes out. Just air and uncertainty. Tifa likes it that way. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, and maybe she’s thankful for it.

Tifa makes eggs for them, scrambled eggs; they’re simple, and it’s not like he has too many ingredients to use in his kitchen, anyway. She would have liked a vegetable omelet, but this is okay, too. And he’s in charge of the toast, because it’s one of the very few things in the kitchen he actually can do. Tch. He’s a college professor, an editor at a publishing company. He’s responsible, professional, always giving his all, always working hard. And yet, he doesn’t know how to cook, a basic life skill. If they were together, she’d do the cooking, but she’d also definitely teach him.

_Whoa_. Wait. Where the _fuck_ did that come from? _If they were together_? No. _No_. They’re not. They’re not together, and they probably won’t ever be,

But Tifa doesn’t _love_ him. No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to be with him. She doesn’t want to be his girlfriend. He’s her professor, for god’s sake.

And she’s...a mess. Alone and spiraling. She doesn’t love him. And why would he ever love her?

_I care about you, Tifa. I want to see you do well and thrive. I’m not going to leave until I make sure you’re okay._

Shut up. Shut up. Stop. _Please_.

Tifa wishes she could turn her brain off.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa is...still here.

She’s still in his apartment. It’s well into the afternoon of Sunday, one of his only days off. And she’s...here. And she doesn’t really want to leave. She’s hardly touched her smartphone all day. Today her world has been him and him only, the sun high in his eyes, gold sparkles sprinkled atop melting ice. She took a shower, wore his clothes. She had breakfast with him, nearly choked on the slice of toast he prepared for her because of a dumb joke he made. And now they’re in the living room, lounging, the television white noise behind the tornado of her thoughts.

But it can never be too good. Of course, because he is who he is after all. Her professor.

“Miss Lockhart,” he drawls, his head down, his hands furiously typing onto his work laptop. “I hope you’re busy making those corrections.”

He’s forcing her to make the corrections on her _Jenova_ essay. She hates him so fucking much.

“Yes, professor.”

He’s even lent her his personal laptop for this. She brought up the essay document, got a bit peeved at the seventy out of one hundred score she got, but she shouldn’t complain. He’s letting her make the corrections, and then, she’ll be getting an eighty-five, a significantly better grade.

But still. She doesn’t want to do this damn essay. The education system is a scam.

And he’s been tapping away at his keyboard all day. She wonders what he’s writing, wonders what has him so engrossed. His brow is crunched, his eyes focused behind the lenses of his glasses (a backup pair, because he broke the other pair). Tifa likes watching the way his fingers move, thin and lithe, the bones rippling under the stretched skin. She likes his hands, especially likes them when they’re on her body.

Oh no. Oh _god_. Again? Did they not go three rounds last night? How does she _still_ want him? He’s just sitting there. In his t-shirt and sweatpants and glasses. On his laptop. He’s not even wearing his normal button down and slacks; he’s more rundown, more loose and casual, relaxed rather than professional, and Tifa’s still going mad for him, still thinks he’s the most gorgeous creature that’s ever walked on this planet.

He must have her under some kind of spell. She’s never felt like this about a man in the past.

“Miss Lockhart,” he calls, his voice a warning. “I don’t see those fingers moving.”

She groans, But an opportunity presents itself, and she takes it, moving the laptop off her lap and placing it onto the table.

“But yours are,” she says. “What are you writing?”

She shimmies closer to him, but he’s quick to turn towards her, moves his laptop screen out of her sight. She frowns.

“I’ll only tell you after you finish the essay.”

“Come _on_ ,” she whines. “Can I get a little peak?”

Looking at how smart, insightful, and well-read he is, he must be an amazing writer. Tifa wants to read some of his prose, to see what feats a man so passionate about literature is able to accomplish. But he doesn’t let her, shuts his laptop and purses his lips at her.

“Nope,” he says. “Do your work.”

She huffs, the breath rattling her fringe.

“But I don’t want to.”

“Oh?” He quirks his brow at her, and she likes the way his hands come over her hips. She welcomes the touch, gets closer to him, leans against him while on her knees. “I’m being generous to you.”

“I know,” she says, lets her fingers play with the silver pierced into his ear. “But I don’t want to.”

She’d rather do _him_ than the essay.

“You’re being a little brat, aren’t you?”

Tifa’s toes curl. _God_ , she loves it when he talks to her like that. 

“I am,” she says, wraps her arms around him, lets her lips drift over the shell of his ear. “I’m being a bad student. Are you going to punish me?”

She hears him swallow thickly.

“Do you want me to?”

Yes, yes, yes, _fuck_ yes.

“Spank me, sir,” she says, her voice dropping into a sweet, pleading coo. “I’m being bad.”

Cloud very well shatters right before her.

He throws his laptop to the side, whatever he’d been writing clearly taking a backseat to his desires. He pulls her forward until she’s draped over his lap, her face molded against the couch cushion. And his fingers pull down the waistband of his sweatpants only until her ass is exposed. She isn’t wearing any panties.

The first slap has her brain spinning in her head. She moans into the cushion, grips it for dear life. She’s already wet, can feel her body coming alive in an incessant heat. She’s sore from the night before, her legs aching, but still, she wants more. Wants as much of him as she can handle before the day ends and they’ll have to go back to being student and professor.

She won’t think about that. Right now, she’s a bad student, and he needs to punish her.

“Bad girl,” he rasps, and he hits her again, this time harder, and she jolts, the pleasure blooming, flickering down her veins like sparks of electricity. He dips forward, his palm resting on the curve of her ass, soothing the flaring skin. “Was that too hard?”

He’s sweet. So, so sweet.

“No,” she says. “You can do it harder. Punish me, sir.”

He obliges. Of course he does. And here, slung across his lap like a rag doll, her ass high in the air, she wonders why she likes this so much. Being under his complete control, being punished for acting like a brat. She likes it too much, so much that she’s trembling, clenching her thighs together, desperate for any friction against her throbbing clit. He spanks her again, her skin jiggling, and it’s a sharp, painful sting. But _god_ , she loves it, sinks her teeth into the cushion, whimpering around the fabric.

“Little slut,” he growls, and his free hand comes under her neck, lifting her head up and closer to him. “Were you being bad on purpose? Because you wanted this?”

The question is punctuated by another slap. How does he expect her to answer him now? She moans, loud and wanton, bucking her hips into his hand. His fingers rub soft, calm circles into the skin, and she likes it, but she likes the pain more. The pain, the control he has over her, how he has her wrapped around his finger. And the deep, leathery drawl of his voice bends into her spine, has her teeth ripping into the skin of her bottom lip.

God, he’s driving her insane.

“Yes,” she finally answers. “I was being bad on purpose. I wanted you to punish me.”

Another slap. This one is the hardest of them all, and Tifa lets out a little cry, wiggles against him. She’s _so_ aroused, feels the slippery wetness between her thighs, the fire that burns in her core, laps at all of her organs. 

“Are you going to do it again?”

“No, sir,” she says. “I won’t. I’ll be good. I promise.”

It doesn’t seem like he believes her, because he spanks her again, and again, and again, and she _loves_ it, drowns in the feeling, the pain that beckons the pleasure forward. His hand cups her ass, and the skin is sore, stinging. She jerks a bit when he pulls her cheeks apart, dips his fingers down and pokes at her folds. He spreads them, opens her up, and she lets her legs come apart, as much as they can with the back of the couch in the way. Tifa feels the air hit her most sensitive flesh, his fingers prodding at her inflamed lips. He doesn’t slide inside, not yet. And he doesn’t touch her clit, not yet.

“Will you be a good girl for me?” he whispers, drops the tiniest of kisses onto her temple. Tifa gasps, her voice breaking in her throat.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Cloud lifts her up, catches her in a hard, messy kiss, more teeth and tongue than lip. He’s urgent, moves her where he wants her to be, and she lets him, surrenders entirely to his whims. She ends up with her pants completely off, her legs around his lap, straddling him, her bare, hot flesh right against his cock, hard and ready and confined within the cotton of his sweats.

Fuck. She wants it so bad.

“Sir.”

“No,” he says, his hand diving under her shirt, pressing into her hip. “Rub yourself against me. Get yourself off.”

No. No, no, _no_. She wants _him_ to get her off. She wants his fingers, his tongue, his cock, anything.

“No. I want _you_.”

“You’re being punished, Miss Lockhart. Do as you’re told.”

Tifa nearly begins to cry. 

But she’s so _hot_ , like she’s melting from the inside out. She wants something, anything, even though it won’t nearly be enough. Tifa starts to rub herself against him, wets the cotton underneath her. One of his hands holds her hips firmly, the other coming to pull her folds up, reveals her clit. It’s swollen and sensitive from the night before, when he’d made her come so many times she forgot her own name. And right now, nothing exists but him, the pressure building inside her. Like this, every touch against her clit is heightened, makes her toes curl, and she rolls her hips back and forth, grinds herself against his erection. And he lets her go only at a pace he allows, the hold he has on her hip hard and restrictive. And even when she’s on top of him, even when he ordered her to get herself off, she’s still under his command, under his control.

And she fucking _loves_ it.

“God,” she gasps, holding onto him for leverage as she bucks into him. “Why are you so good at this roleplaying shit?”

He gives a husked chuckle.

“I’m not roleplaying,” he says. “I’m actually upset with you for not wanting to do the corrections.”

She rolls her eyes at him.

“I’ll do the damn correー”

Tifa’s voice dies in her throat, because the harsh grip of his hand forces her to press down harder onto him, and he rubs against her clit _so good_ , and she’s losing it, losing her mind, wrapping her arms around his neck and slumping against his torso. It’s not enough, barely enough to satisfy her. It feels good, but not as good as his fingers, or his mouth, or his cock. And the fabric barrier is _torturous_. It’s all wet with her juices, and she can feel the heat of him seep into her, and god, she fucking wants his cock inside her so bad.

It’ll have to wait. After all, she’s being punished.

“Sir,” she pants into his hair, nuzzles her nose into his neck. She gets faster, more urgent, more desperate, the climb to the top slow, almost painful. His hands both move to her ass, gripping it firmly, and it’s still hurting from his spanking before, but she doesn’t care, likes the way he controls her movements. She comes only on his command, this orgasm sneaking up on her, bubbling up her spine and seizing all her limbs. It holds her hostage for one, two, three beats of her heart, and then it lets go, leaves her like the mess of a girl she is, sprawled out over him.

She feels so _empty_. She wanted to come around his cock.

“Look at you,” he says, holds her chin in his grasp, forces her to look right at him. “You ruined my sweatpants.”

She looks down, and _oh_. Yes. The gray cotton is now very damp. She came all over him.

This very much reminds her of that dream she had, when she left a puddle on his October calendar. And he’d called her a dirty little slut for it.

She shudders at the thought.

“Sorry, sir,” she says. But maybe, she’s not that sorry. “I can make it up to you.”

Tifa leaves his lap, and she goes onto the floor, gets on her knees for him. He looks a tiny bit confused but all too excited, a pale flush dusting the tops of his cheeks.

“I wanted to fuck you, though.”

“You can fuck me after,” she says, lifts the waistbands of his sweatpants and boxers and brings them down, just enough so his cock is free. “You have a lot of stamina, don’t you?”

Three rounds. And he did not once get tired. God, she wishes she could marry him and get fucked like that every night.

He opens his mouth to say something, but the words stumble and crumble once she gives a little lick to the head of his cock. And Tifa sighs, likes the feeling of his hot, pulsing flesh against her tongue, and it’s all she wanted for so long. To pleasure him like the stranger in the bar pleasured her, to be on her knees for him, to let him fuck her face however he liked. She may like him inside her better, but this is good. Very good, and she tilts her head into his palm when it comes to rest onto her cheek after pushing her hair away.

This. This is very good. She was supposed to be doing essay corrections.

“You’re a bad girl, Miss Lockhart.”

She gives the leaking head of his cock a tiny kiss, likes the way it twitches before her.

“Punish me more,” she says, moans out the words. “Fuck my face, sir.”

(Maybe she likes the roleplaying even better.)

Professor Strife’s hand comes around the back of her neck, pushes her further onto his cock. Tifa takes as much of him as she can, and he’s not the biggest, but he has girth, and it’s difficult to bring in all of him. When he hits her throat, her eyes mist over, the sight of him blurred before her. He’s gasping, groaning, moaning, holds her neck firmly, his fingers tangled in her hair.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “You take me so well.”

Tifa begins bobbing her head up and down, her tongue gliding against the underside of him, against the protruding veins. She pulls back, his shaft wet with her spit, and she sucks on only the head of him, goes and goes until his eyes glaze over, go unfocused, his hold on her neck tightening.

And then, he pulls her forward, so much so that she takes all of him into her mouth, and she gags, her throat closing around him.

But god, she fucking _loves_ it.

“Was that too much?” His fingers flirt at her nape, tickling the skin there. “I’m sorry.”

Tifa, as much as she can with his cock deep into her mouth, shakes her head. She lets him go, and she holds onto the base of him, draws little circles around his leaking slit with the tip of her tongue.

“I liked it,” she says, wipes her mouth with the back of her free hand. “Fuck my face, sir. Hard.”

This time, he obeys. He slides back into her mouth, holds her head firmly with both hands, and he thrusts. Shallowly as to not hurt her, but quickly, and she likes the feeling. So much so that she’s whimpering around his cock, clenching her thighs together, her pussy aching, begging for something more.

“Fuck, Tifa,” he sighs, his voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re so good.”

She likes hearing that, she thinks. But maybe being called his dirty little slut is better.

Tifa lets him fuck her face, and he starts to get faster, starts to lose his rhythm, starts to lose his mind. She holds onto his hips, and when he staggers, his thighs trembling, his mouth stuck on a call of her name, he comes, deep down her throat.

He’s so, so pretty when he comes. Head thrown back, red painted onto the highs of his cheeks, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. He holds onto her hair for dear life as he releases everything into her mouth. And when he pulls out, his cum drips past her lips in streams.

She swallows all of it. Every drop. Picks it up with her finger and licks it off.

And he _loves_ it. He can’t tear his eyes away from her, pants hard, his breaths rattling his body.

“God, Tifa,” he sighs, pulls her closer and bends down to take her mouth in a kiss. “You’re driving me crazy.”

She likes hearing that.

“I overdid it, didn’t I?”

Tifa settles next to him onto the couch, and he cradles her against his chest, his fingers drifting, drinking in the silk of her hair. Although it may not be as silky since she used that cool charcoal ocean shampoo.

“No. It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I get too into the roleplaying.”

“Cloud, it’s fine,” she says, and she’s adamant. “I would have told you if I didn’t like it. Besides, I like it when you’re rough with me.”

And Professor Strife stills before her, and she can’t read his eyes, the flicker of change in them, like a light has come on, like the sun has winked gold into them. Melting yet captivating, and she still feels so captured.

His voice is quiet when he speaks.

“You deserve to be loved gently, too. Gently. Wholly.”

Tifa’s heart stutters to a stop in her chest. She goes rigid. What does it mean? _What does it mean_?

“What?”

He backpedals. She can see the flash of panic in his eyes, like bright, blinding lights. He turns away from her, busies himself with fixing his sweatpants.

“It’s a quote,” he says quickly. “From _Loveless_. You really didn’t read it, did you?”

No. No, maybe she didn’t.

Tifa’s pulse is quickening, and she doesn’t really know why. The misty blanket of lust leaves her mind, and now she’s left wallowing in its wake. She’s thinking. Clearly, coherently. And she doesn’t like it.

What does that _mean_?

And then, she feels herself being tugged forward.

“Come on,” he says in a panicked haste. It’s now that she hears the incessant knock on the front door. And then, there’s a yell.

“Cloud, you son of a bitch, open up!”

Oh. Professor Highwind. Right.

Tifa and Cloud run into the bedroom. He throws at her the sweatpants she’d been wearing before, and he tosses the soiled ones he’d been wearing into the hamper. He rummages urgently through his dresser to grab another pair. When he gets them on, pulls at the drawstring to bring them tighter around his waist, he turns to her.

“Don’t come out, okay?”

“I _know_ ,” she snaps.

He lingers for a beat of her heart. And then, he goes, shuts the door on his way out. The male voices are muffled, and they flutter into Tifa’s ears.

“You were supposed to meet us for dinner, fool!” Highwind.

“You’ve been rather irresponsible lately, haven’t you?” Valentine.

“Sorry, guys. I’ve been busy.”

Busy fucking her. Mister Responsible has been rather irresponsible lately. 

Tifa doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. She feels sour, like an acrid bitterness is crawling up her throat, masking all her taste buds. Their relationship is odd. Unconventional. Their circumstances force them to be in the shadows, to be clandestine. No one can know about what they have going.

But _what_ do they have going? What is their relationship? It isn’t teacher and student anymore, and she damn well knows that.

And as she sits on his bed, listens to him trying to shoo his colleagues out of his apartment, Tifa wonders. Wonders and wonders.

A better question would be: what does she _want_ their relationship to be?

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa is...still here.

It’s well into the evening, and the sun has lost its battle, has surrendered early to the moon. As the clutches of winter drag October forward, the days get colder, shorter. Too short, Tifa thinks. They’d lingered on the couch, decided on ordering Chinese for dinner, since he did not honor the restaurant plans he’d made with his colleagues.

Because of her. Because she’s here, spending Sunday with him. He said he rescheduled with them. But why? Why, when what they have going isn’t right, anyway? Why is she still here when last night was supposed to be the last time they had each other? Until December, that is.

December. Fucking December. The more she thinks about it, the angrier she feels, flames brewing within her abdomen, lapping at her senses. She’s angry, and she doesn’t know why. They were supposed to wait until December, when she wouldn’t be his student anymore, and they would be free to fuck all they wanted. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? That’s what she wanted, felt so stricken by the stranger with glasses who waltzed into her bar and blew her mind away with his tongue. And then he became something more, her educator who made her blood pressure spike to new levels. And then she couldn’t keep away from him, felt drawn to him, like each and every cell in her body ached to be within his presence.

And now, here she is. In his apartment. Spending the day with him. As if she isn’t a student. As if he isn’t her professor. As if it’s okay to do this.

It isn’t. She knows it isn’t. But is everything supposed to be okay when December arrives? She won’t be his student, but she’ll still be a student. And a student cannot have feelings for her professor. She can’t become the girlfriend of a fucking professor.

_You deserve to be loved gently. Wholly._

No, no, _no_ , shut up. _Shut up_. She doesn’t have feelings for him. She doesn’t want to be with him. It was physical. It was always supposed to be a physical thing.

And besides, she doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve it.

“Hey.”

There’s pressure against her forehead. He’s poking her, and she blinks, shaking off the thoughts that’d had her submerged. Professor Strife is looking at her, the colors of him splashing against the white of the tile behind him. The sound of running water thrums through the depths of her soul.

“You were thinking really hard.”

Yeah, yeah she was.

“I was just thinking about the _Loveless_ quiz.”

For which he made her study. After she finished and submitted the essay corrections of course.

(And after he fucked her again. Of course.)

“I think you’ll do well,” he says, turns off the faucet, dips his fingers into the rippling surface of the water to test the temperature. It seems to satisfy him, because he stands up straight, faces her and crosses his arms.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. And she’s ecstatic about it.

“It’s not a hard quiz.”

“Really?” she asks. “Can you tell me what questions are going to be on it, then?”

He takes off his glasses and glares at her.

“Absolutely not, Miss Lockhart.”

Oh well. It was worth a shot. 

Cloud walks away from the tub, goes towards the door and wraps his hand around the knob. “I’ll let you get undressed.”

“But you’ve seen it all already,” she says, finds it a bit ludicrous. Just earlier, he’d been the one undressing her. And he splutters a bit, turning away, rose petals dusting their hue onto his cheeks.

“I should still give you some privacy.”

He leaves, the door ajar in his wake. Tifa shakes her head, shakes away the little smile that captures her lips. She begins undressing, starts with her shirt and then goes for her sweatpants. She hasn’t worn any undergarments all day; they, along with her dress, are all in the wash. Because of his insistence, of course. He really loves his lavender fabric softener.

It’s endearing. Too much so.

Tifa gets into the tub, and the water feels scalding, lava sloshing against her skin, and maybe she should have known from the steam that clogs up all her senses. But god, she loves it, told him she likes showers and baths so hot she feels like she’s in hell. And he delivered, and at hearing her relieved groan, he comes back inside, pokes his head through the crack in the door.

“What are you doing?” She waves at him. “Get in here.”

He walks towards her, rids himself of his sweatpants and boxers, and gets into the tub, settles across from her, his legs framing her body. Teasingly, she stretches her own leg, pokes at his stomach with her big toe. He frowns.

“I feel like I’m melting,” he says. “How do you do this?”

Tifa shrugs. 

“Normally I’d have some bubble bath,” she says. “Or bath salts. What kind of monster are you?”

“I’m not a monster!” he defends. “I just don’t take baths that often.”

“Right.”

Tifa sighs, lets her body become pliant against the edge of the tub. It would have been nice to feel bubbles frothing over her skin, to have pleasant, floral scents tickling her nose. But she supposes this is fine, as well. He’s here. And they didn’t even want to bathe, anyway; it’s just to warm up a bit. They took their showers earlier.

After her fucked her. For the fourth time since she’s been here.

God bless his stamina.

“Are you still worried about the _Loveless_ quiz? If you are, we can studyー”

“It’s okay,” she says. He’s done enough, she thinks. More than he should have. But he’s a good educator who likes to see his students do well. He’ll go above and beyond just to make sure his students understand his material. And she appreciates it, appreciates how he takes care of them.

How he takes care of _her_. 

“I’ll do fine,” she says. “Let’s not talk about school for a little while.”

Tifa just...doesn’t want to think about anything. At all. She wishes she could turn her brain off, be free of the chaos for just a little while. Sleep helps, but sleep is so fleeting, leaves her just as quick as it came, and she can’t sleep forever. 

She can’t, right? She shouldn’t.

“Tifa.”

And she wonders why he calls her name like that. Why it feels so safe and sacred on his tongue. When did she become Tifa and not Miss Lockhart?

And he’s right there, right next to her, bare, his skin glistening, white light caught in the highs. His hair lays in damp strands over his forehead, his glasses nowhere to be seen. And Tifa inches towards him, the water splashing out of the tub. It’s gotten colder, but it’s still a warm caress that pools around her cells, douses her in peace.

Peace. Happiness. It’s too troubling, especially the quick beat of her heart when she settles into his lap, straddles him with no clothing in the way. But she does not want him. Not viscerally, not lustfully, like normal. There’s something else, and Tifa can’t quite place her finger on it. This feeling, this calmness, the quiet that roars in her ears. The way he tucks behind her ear the wet hair that’s spilled out of her bun. The way his palm lingers on her cheek. The way he looks at her. Icy eyes, suffocating eyes, melting and melting and melting, and she feels drowned, like she’s ducked her head into the tub.

What’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with her?

She takes a deep, deep breath, presses her chest against his, hopes he can’t feel the hard, rapid drum of her heart. She looks up at the ceiling lights, feels them stab at her eyes, and he kisses the stretched column of her neck, open-mouthed and lingering. Soft. Gentle.

_Gently. Wholly._

**.**

**.**

**.**

It’s time to leave.

Of course it is. This is not her house. She does not belong here, and she knows this very well. She’s been here all day, and maybe she’s overstayed her welcome. But he has not said anything, has not done anything that made her think he wanted her to leave. No, Professor Strife was welcoming all day, clung to her like he didn’t want her to leave.

And she...doesn’t. She hates herself for it. But it’s well into the night, and their week starts tomorrow. Monday. It’s Monday, tomorrow.

Back to reality. She never can quite run away.

She’s in a towel, sits on his bed as she waits for him to bring her clothes from the dryer. He’s given her lotion, a simple, unscented one for the crackle of her skin, but she’s not really using it. She’s twiddling her fingers, curling her toes, wondering what it is that’s gnawing at her, clawing at her lungs. She hates this feeling, this all-consuming ebbing that won’t go away no matter how far her thoughts stray. It stays, always and always.

She doesn’t want to go home and be alone again.

She turns her head, looks at his bedside table. He’s left his laptop open. His work laptop, if she remembers correctly. One click at the spacebar and the screen comes alive, the white of it stark against the darkness that clouds her senses.

It’s a word document. He’s writing something, she thinks. Is it the same thing he’d been writing before, when she was making the essay corrections?

Tifa backs away, unwilling to trample all over his privacy. It’s a boundary she’d like to respect. But the words on the screen call at her, bring her further in, trap her attention until she can’t look away. The document is titled _First Manuscript_.

Is he writing a novel? Of course. Fitting for someone like him.

Tifa can’t quell her curiosity. She reads a bit. A little bit won't hurt, right? She realizes that he'd left off on page thirty-three. It’s the beginning of chapter four.

_Skye follows Neza into Seventh Heaven, taking the stool to which she gestures. She hurries through the swinging doors with a grin, the dim lighting in the bar shining off her long, black hair all down her back. When she turns, her fringe frames her face like a picture. She leans in, asking what he’ll have, and she’s so pretty, so kind, he almost doesn’t know what to say._

_He answers something offhandedly, taken by how she always seems to accept him with no effort at all, unlike anyone else. He watches as she mixes his drink, and something about her makes his heartbeat stutter, then speed. It's in the soft crinkle around her lashes when she smiles, in the easy turn of her lips. It’s how graceful her movements are and the gentleness of her hands as she works. It's the way her carmine eyes invite him in, welcoming him home._

_The sweet cadence of her voice permeates through him, and he holds onto every look, every word. Her very presence soothes him, calms him deep within, despite the moisture beneath his gloves and the beating in his chest._

_She’s perfect through and through._

_Needing to tell her as much, he meets her gaze and raises the glass she’d prepared, saying the first word that comes to mind._

_“Beautiful.”_

Long, black hair. Carmine eyes. Bartender.

No. No, no, no, no, _fuck_ no. _No_.

Tifa shuts the screen, flinches back, and she doesn’t know why her heart wants to rip out of her chest. 

It’s not her. It can’t be her. No. _No_.

He can’t be writing about her. That’s not _her_. That’s not Tifa, because Tifa is a mess. A sad, reckless mess of a girl. A student who doesn’t know what she’s doing, who’s always been alone and abandoned. It’s not _her_.

_She’s perfect through and through._

No. No, she’s _not_.

“Tifa.”

She winces, turns to look at her professor as he enters the room. He has her dress neatly folded into a square, her bra and panties on top.

“Here you go,” he says, and maybe she’s good at hiding it, but he doesn’t seem to sense the panic within her. She tries to even her breathing. “Ready to go?”

No. No, she’s not. She’s really, really not.

But she has to go. She doesn’t belong here.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to thank my lovely friend jen aka jcmorrison for writing that little snippet from cloud's novel! i thought of writing it myself, but then i thought maybe it'd be fun to ask another writer in the cloti community to write it, so i did! and i absolutely love it! she did an amazing job and captured exactly the feeling i was going for. go support her and read her [work](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCMorrison/pseuds/JCMorrison/works); she's incredibly talented! <3
> 
> thank u for reading i hope u liked the chapter my loves <3


	10. falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone i love you
> 
> im still feelin kinda bad and i hope it didn't reflect in this chapter skskdksjdl
> 
> enjoy <3

Tifa is fretting.

She is fretting very badly. He dropped her home, and she did not speak much throughout the entire car ride. There was not much to talk about, not when she was so buried in her thoughts and they’d already spent the entire day together.

They spent the entire day together. They fucked four times. They had breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. They did work together on the living room sofa. They took a bath together.

And now, there’s nothing. That’s it. Until December.

But waiting until December doesn’t make any fucking sense when she wants more than just a physical fling.

No. No, no, oh god, _no_. How could this happen? How could she develop feelings for her fucking _professor_? It doesn’t make any sense. It was supposed to remain physical. Sexual. They wanted each other sexually, and that was supposed to be all. But she felt so enamored by him, so entranced, felt addicted to him like she would a drug. And it doesn’t make any fucking sense, why this had to happen, why she couldn’t just fucking think logically and stay away from him like she should have.

He didn’t stay away, either. And now, his novel is about her.

No. Fuck, _no_. Tifa paces about her bedroom, thinking and thinking. She only read a few paragraphs. That’s all. She doesn’t even know what the novel is about, much less what else happens in it. She doesn’t know who Skye and Neza are. Neza can’t be her. She can’t be.

But the black hair. The carmine eyes. The bartending.

 _Beautiful_.

There was affection woven into each and every single word. She recognizes it well. It’s how Lucretia talks about Hojo in _Loveless_. It’s how the narrator spoke about his lover in _Jenova_. 

And Tifa holds her head in her hands. No, he can’t have feelings for her professor. He’s going to lose his job.

And she’s not beautiful. She’s not perfect. She doesn’t deserve to be loved gently and wholly.

She deserves to be abandoned. That’s how it’s been her entire life.

And the silence, the white walls, the emptiness, it’s all chipping away at her, and she can’t take it anymore, goes to grab her smartphone out of her purse. She dials the first person she always does, the person who’s always, always there for her.

“Tifa! Where have you been?! You haven’t responded to me all day!”

“Sorry, Aerith,” Tifa says, and she’s actually sorry. Aerith sends her text messages all day, makes sure she’s okay, makes sure she doesn’t feel lonely. “I was...busy.”

Busy spending the day with their literature professor.

Tifa drops onto her bed, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“I have a problem.”

“What problem?!” Aerith’s voice heightens, squeaky and urgent in Tifa’s ear. “Are you okay?!”

Not necessarily, if Tifa’s being honest with herself.

“I’m fine.” 

She’s lying, isn’t she? And Aerith sees through it immediately, even when they’re on the phone. Aerith can detect the deflated drop in Tifa’s voice, knows when something is wrong sometimes even before Tifa realizes it herself.

“Tifa,” Aerith says slowly. “What’s going on?”

And Tifa...spills. She spills it all. Everything that’s happened with Professor Strife since they’d first had sex in his office. How he took her to the coffee shop when she was sad, bought her a hot chocolate and stayed with her to make sure she’d be okay. How they’d nearly been caught by Miss Scarlet. How their tutoring session turned into them rushing to get back to his apartment because they couldn’t bear to keep their hands off each other. How she’d spent the entire day with him, let him fuck her until she lost all her wits, cooked with him, studied with him, bathed with him, drank in his warmth and presence and became so comfortable she didn’t want to leave.

How he’d told her _I love you_ in that absurd dream she had. How he’d held her all night, never once let her go. How he’d looked at her with melting, pooling eyes. How she felt so safe and warm and at ease in his arms. How the character named Neza he created seemed so much like her. Everything. Tifa says everything, opens her heart up until she’s completely defenseless and bare down to her viscera and bones. And Aerith listens. She always does. Quietly, intently.

Tifa doesn’t know what she’d do without Aerith.

“Tifa,” Aerith says, only after Tifa’s completely done, heaving and trembling a bit, rattled down to the center of her being. “I only have one question for you.”

Tifa nods, but it’s not like Aerith can fucking see her.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have feelings for him?”

And Tifa’s completely winded by this one question. It’s a simple one, straightforward. But god, it’s impossible to answer, and all of her thoughts are in a disarray, panicked as if after a natural disaster. And she doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to comb through her feelings, jumbled and spinning around her chest so quickly she goes dizzy in it. This chaos. This storm. This troubling weight that drags her heart down into her stomach.

She guesses she does. But why, when this isn’t allowed, and his job is on the line? Why, when this was supposed to only remain a physical, sexual fling?

Why, when she’s probably going to be alone and abandoned in the end anyway?

“Iー”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Aerith cuts in. “I already got my answer.”

Tifa does not reply.

“There isn’t much of a point to wait until December anymore, is there?” Aerith says. “You guys have already had sex. A lot of it, I should say.”

Tifa frowns. Yeah, yeah they did. She just hopes her birth control could keep up.

“And as long as you’re still a student at this university and he’s still employed by this university, you two can’t get into a relationship.”

Right. Of course. He’d get fired, and she cannot bear to let that happen.

“So…” Tifa sighs. “What do I do?”

Aerith sighs as well, just as heavy. “I’m not sure. I guess the only way around this is you graduating, which won’t happen for another three semesters, at least. Or unless you drop out, which you probably don’t want to do.”

Probably. Perhaps.

“And I’m sure he doesn’t want to quit teaching or try to move to another university, either.”

She hopes he doesn’t. If Tifa’s honest with herself, she isn’t exactly worth all that trouble, anyway.

“Probably not. I’m sure he doesn’t even feel the same for me. It’s stupid.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Uh, Teef? It wasn’t a _Loveless_ quote.”

The words don’t register immediately, and Tifa’s a bit confused.

“Huh?”

“‘You deserve to be loved gently and wholly,’” Aerith recites. “That’s not a quote from _Loveless_. I’ve read the book, like, three times. That’s not in there.”

Tifa lifts herself from her pillow, sits up straight on her bed.

“So, what is it that you’re trying to say?”

Aerith gives a long pause.

“Looking at how he likely modeled a character after you in his novel, I think that _he_ wants to love you gently and wholly. He does feel the same.”

No. No way. How is that possible? Her? He likes... _her_? That’s insane. And he’s insane. He shouldn’t like her. She’s a student. What has she ever done for him? Why would he ever like her when there are so many prettier girls out there, his age and more mature, more sophisticated? Responsible like he is, fans of literature like he is. Prettier girls, lovelier girls.

Happier girls. He shouldn’t feel anything for Tifa. Not for Tifa.

She does not answer Aerith, does not know what she could possibly say without her voice straining, her throat clogged in her tears. Tears? Why does she want to cry?

“Another question,” Aerith pipes, and her voice is stronger now, full of energy. “You guys fucked four times. Did you ever use a condom?”

Tifa blinks, the tears suddenly gone.

“Uh…”

“You didn’t, did you?” Aerith begins to yell. “I knew it! I know you’re on birth control, but still, you should have been more careful!”

“Sorry, Aerith, you’re breaking up.”

Tifa tries to mimic the sound of static, holds the phone far away from her ear. Aerith is wailing. 

“Tifa, I’m gonna kill you!”

Tifa hangs up the phone. She’ll call Aerith back in a little while.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa doesn’t know what to do with her feelings. She has too many of them.

Time passes. Of course it does. It’s one of life’s few guarantees. Monday has come, and it brought with it an early winter, chilling down to the bone, the temperatures well below normal. She woke this morning shivering, glaring at the numbers that mocked her on the screen of her smartphone.

Nine fifty-three. She had exactly seven minutes to get to Highwind’s class. And then, she threw her phone to the side, nuzzled back into her blanket. She decided that Highwind wouldn’t mind.

And now, the afternoon comes, clawing at her by the ankle as she tries to crawl away. Monday afternoon means Midgar Literature. It means taking the _Loveless_ quiz. It means going into the lecture hall and looking at Professor Strife’s perfect fucking face and perfect fucking arms and thick-rimmed glasses.

It means facing him after the day they spent together. That lovely, blissful day she wished could last forever. It means facing him after realizing that she feels for him deeply, and he may feel for her, as well.

Tifa hates her fucking life. She lives a pathetic existence.

She doesn’t want to go. She really doesn’t want to go. She wants to stay in her bedroom forever. And it’s cold outside. She doesn’t want to brave the cold.

She doesn’t want to face him. She doesn’t think she’ll handle even looking at him.

But...the _quiz_. He prepared her so much. He really tried his hardest to help her. And for her to just not show up to take the quiz is rude, she thinks. Rude and horrible. She knows he’d allow her to make it up, but at that point, she just thinks she’ll be taking advantage of his kindness.

He’s already done way too much for her.

With a loud, carnal groan, Tifa, begrudgingly, gets out of bed, and she goes to the bathroom.

She’ll have to suck it up and go, like she always does. That’s another one of life’s guarantees: it goes on, whether she likes it or not.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa dressed strategically. She’s in a big winter jacket, with a fluff-lined hood, and as soon as she enters the lecture hall, she puts the hood on her head, snuggles into the fur, and she runs hastily towards her seat. She’s here with only a couple of seconds to spare, because as soon as the hour starts, Professor Strife stands, a stack of papers in his hands. The quiz.

He explains that rather than giving an exam and essay on Loveless, he’s just going to wrap up the novel with this quiz. Thursday they will go over the quiz’s answers, and next Monday, the first Monday of November, they will begin the final novel of the class: _The Ancients_ by Ifalna Gast.

Nice. Okay. All of that is fine and all, but Tifa can’t _look_ at him. She wore this jacket so she could feel swallowed, feel like she can avoid him under the shadow of her hood. But alas, she cannot avoid him. His eyes lay upon her, unwilling to get up. It’s a stark change from when they’d first began, and all he could do was avoid her, and she’d chase his gaze desperately.

That seems so long ago. Too long ago. It was only two months ago.

One thing hasn’t changed, however: she’s still admiring his arms. Goddamn it, they’re _so fucking nice_. And he’s wearing a sweater vest. Why is she horny over a fucking sweater vest?

She needs to get a fucking grip.

“Good luck, everyone.”

He hands out the quizzes, and instead of counting out the papers and giving it to the first student in each row to pass back, like a normal, sane person would, he goes to each student individually. Takes his time in giving the quiz papers; Aerith is a couple of desks away from Tifa, and Tifa looks to her for support.

“You got this!” Aerith whispers. God, she’s so sweet. Rufus looks calm, prepared. Reno gets the quiz paper and groans softly under his breath.

And what Tifa was most afraid of happens; Professor Strife comes to her, places the quiz paper in her hand directly. And she tries not to look at him, but when his fingers brush hers, as cold as hers, she lifts her lashes, and she becomes captured by the ice, wept in the gold of the afternoon sun.

His features. The perfection of them, the prettiness of them. The way the ghostliest of smiles rest easily on his mouth, still enough to pull at her lungs until she’s breathless. Tifa’s so stricken, so lost, so powerless before him.

“You’ll do great, Miss Lockhart.”

Fuck. Shit. Fucking hell. _Fuck_.

Tifa’s _gone_. 

He walks away. And she looks at the quiz. And she knows all this stuff. She knows. It’s been ingrained within her, since he would not leave her alone until she learned the material. And perhaps she’s grateful for it, because she answers every question easily, with a flick of her pencil. Some of the questions are more involved, short answers that require more writing and depth, but she’s fine with those, as well, remembers his teachings as they echo through her head.

When she flips the quiz paper over, she finds something peculiar scrawled into the bottom right corner. Blue ink, the lines of the letters perfect, immaculate.

_See? I knew you’d do great. :)_

Oh my god. _Oh my god_. Tifa’s having a heart attack. She can’t function. She’s falling apart at the seams.

She lets out a strangled mewl, and Aerith’s head snaps in her direction.

“Teef, are you okay?”

No. Not really. Because a thief has just stolen her heart, and she’s _dead_.

“Yーyeah…”

He’s _so_ getting fired.

**.**

**.**

**.**

“You got this!”

Aerith’s hands are firm on Tifa’s shoulders. Tifa nods, breathing in deep, lets the air soak life into her cells. She’s frenzied, frantic and nervous, her palms sweating under her mittens, her nerves flaring, like they’ve been licked by fire.

“I got this!” she yells. It’s fine. It’ll be fine, right? Of course it will. It’s ludicrous, if she really thinks about it, how nervous she is to do this tiny, menial thing for him when they’ve literally had _sex_ . Multiple times. She’s had his head between her legs. She’s been bent over his lap and _spanked_ by him. So, why is she so fucking nervous to give him a fucking _cappuccino_? It makes no sense.

Their relationship is...weird. Unconventional And she just wanted to do something for him. To give back in a way that doesn’t involve them getting too close to each other. Because they can’t do that, not anymore. Not when too much is on the line. Not when they promised to leave each other alone. 

Until fucking December.

The kind, elderly lady who’s normally in the English department office is not here today, her desk empty, untouched. Tifa and Aerith walk in, and Professor Strife’s door is ajar, yellow light spilling through the cracks. His office hours begin at four on Mondays. It’s five. She feels the warmth of the coffee melt into her hands, seeping through the foam of the cup and the yarn of the mittens. Aerith had gotten a hot chocolate. Tifa didn’t get anything.

That place. That coffee shop. The memory of it is bitter, drenched in rainwater, but it’s still something she hangs onto, because the sweetness of him still lingers, the way he’d taken care of her, stayed with her until she was okay. Tifa clings to it, holds it preciously in her heart. This cappuccino is nothing compared to that, compared to all that he’s given her, and she knows that.

Still, she’ll try. Until they’re free. Until she graduates, or until he changes schools. Until then, they can have nothing more than this.

Aerith knocks on his door. His voice flutters, velvet grazing her ears.

“Come in.”

Aerith sends her off with a wide, glittering smile, like she’s never tasted sadness in her entire life. Tifa’s grateful for it.

“Miss Lockhart.”

“Hi.”

He’s at his desk, typing away at his computer. His work laptop, she recognizes. His desk is neat, organized like it always is, not a paper out of place, not a pen out of place. He’s taken off his sweater vest, and it hangs off one side of his chair. Tifa feels heat brewing in her core, her heart spinning and spinning, and she nearly drops the foam cup. She saves it in time, not a droplet spilled, and she looks at him, wishing the floor would just come up and swallow her whole.

He’s so fucking _pretty_. Tifa can’t stand it.

“I, uh, got you something…”

She places the cappuccino onto his desk, right next to his arm. And she pulls back quickly, stands with distance between them, her gloved hands clasped behind her back. He blinks at her.

“Cappuccino,” she elaborates. “With three teaspoons of sugar. So you can indulge.”

The memory dawns upon him, sparkles into his eyes, and he lets out a small, breathy chuckle. Tifa nearly falls over.

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

But she wanted to.

“Oh, it’s okay.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I was, you know, in the area, and I thought of you, so…”

No big deal. Of course. Except for the fact that she’s so nervous she may begin to wither at the joints. Seriously, why is she like this? She’s acting like a lovesick school girl when she’s had the man’s _dick_ in her mouth, for god’s sake. She’s had his _cum_ inside her, for god’s sake.

She hates herself.

“Thank you, Tifa.” And it’s not Miss Lockhart. It’s Tifa, and she can’t get used to hearing her name like that on his tongue, soft and spoken with such care, like one wrong inflation of his throat will break her. “It’s timely, too. I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

He usually does. He’s always working too hard, always responsible.

“Working on your manuscript?”

She only realizes it after she says it, after she sees the panic flicker into his features. Shit. Fuck. She’s not supposed to know about that. _Fuck_.

But it had been eating at her, Skye and Neza and the affectionate way in which he spoke about her. How Neza seems too much like Tifa to be a coincidence. Aerith had said it, as well.

_I think that he wants to love you gently and wholly._

“Sーsorry,” she flounders, and god, she wishes she could stop acting so pathetic. “I, uh, saw some of it on your laptop. I didn’t read it, though.”

She’s a fucking liar.

“It’s all right,” he says. He takes a sip of the cappuccino, pauses a bit as he absorbs the caffeine and warmth. “But yes, I am working on that. I’d like to publish it someday.”

Tifa perks at hearing this. She steps a bit closer, just a bit.

“What’s the novel about?”

And Professor Strife begins to glimmer like the sun, like he does when he’s standing in front of the classroom, picking apart prose that isn’t his own. But with prose that is his own, he’s even happier, even more passionate, and it’s written in the way he smiles, the way he turns his chair to her and inches closer. He’s excited, and he’s enthusiastic, and Tifa finds herself smiling as well, the anxiety she’d had fleeing her mind as something else comes, settles over her in a fog.

Peace. Safety. She always feels it around him.

“Sit,” he says, patting an empty spot on his desk. Right on top of his October calendar. And she remembers something she shouldn’t have.

 _That dream_. That cursed dream. Oh no. No, no, _no_.

Tifa sits atop the October calendar, hoping none of this turns into what she’d seen in her sleep.

“Aren’t you busy?” she asks, adjusting herself. She pulls off her mittens. “I don’t want to distract you.”

She’s done plenty of that already.

“It’s fine,” he says, and the high cadence to his voice falls a bit, back to a grounded, neutral tone, and Tifa misses the excitement, how his demeanor began to burst. “It’s not every day someone shows interest in my novel.”

And Tifa listens, shows how interested she is, hangs onto every single world, lets the story paint itself into her mind. A world that’s been bled of its life, by artificial energy called Mako, he said. Energy stolen from the planet’s core itself, where the souls of the dead lay at rest, called the Lifestream. As the humans absorb more and more of the Lifestream in order to create Mako for themselves, the planet begins its slow descent into demise, like it’s being choked from the outside in. There’s a boy named Skye, born and raised in a small, forgotten town, who dreams of joining the army and becoming a hero. Not for his mom, or to save the world.

For his childhood love. Neza with the long, black hair and carmine eyes. Tifa tries not to flinch when she hears him say her name.

“He’s enamored by her,” Professor Strife explains. “He always has been. He was always the loner, didn’t have any friends. And she was beloved by the entire town. She’d always been surrounded by people, and he had no choice but to watch her from afar. And then, one night, when they’re a bit older, Skye calls Neza to the top of the town’s water tower.”

Tifa listens intently, realizes that she’s leaned into him and him into her, and she doesn’t mind it, doesn’t move back. He doesn’t, either.

“He says he’s leaving to join the army,” Cloud says. “To become a First Class Soldier, the highest rank. He wants to become a hero. And he doesn’t know it yet, but Neza doesn’t want him to leave. She has feelings for him, too, but she doesn’t say it. Instead, she makes him promise her that when he’s older and a famous Soldier, he’ll come back and save her if she ever needed helpーwhat’s wrong?”

He stops talking. And Tifa realizes that she’s staring. So, so hard, like it’ll pain her to look away. The lines of his face, hardened by age, but there’s a softness to them, a plump, childlike curve to his cheeks. The blues of his eyes, and maybe they aren’t ice anymore. Maybe they’re the afternoon sky after a long week of dark storms. Maybe they’re the ocean, rippling and swirling with life. Maybe they’re her greatest weakness, the irises tearing her walls down until she’s left with nothing before him. Tifa’s heart is open and weeping out, and she gets closer, closer, feels electrified, feels entrapped.

Enamored, like Skye is with Neza. So, _so_ enamored.

“Tifa.”

“Sorry,” she says, and her voice is low, vulnerable. “I was just…”

Completely and utterly taken by him.

“Thinking about how your first name is Cloud, and you named your main character Skye.”

He blinks, and then, he splutters, trying to defend himself.

“Iーhe’s not a self-insert! I swear!”

And Tifa breaks into a loud laugh, one borne from the deepest throes of her soul. And Cloud laughs as well, and maybe for a moment, everything is all right, and nothing else really matters. She presses her lips against his, the slightest, ghostliest of touches, and nothing else matters. Not that they’re on campus and in his office, not that he’s her professor and she’s his student, not that he could lose his job and that she has feelings for him. None of that.

Only for a moment. But moments like this never last. It’s another one of life’s guarantees.

“Tifa!” Aerith yells, and the moment shatters all around Tifa, douses her in glass shards. She turns away from Professor Strife, stands up and sees Aerith in the doorway of the office. “Stop the canoodling! The secretary is coming back!”

Right. Of course. Because they’re not fucking supposed to be doing this.

Tifa appreciates Aerith sticking around and waiting. And Tifa hardly looks at Professor Strife as she rushes out the door.

“See you on Thursday,” he calls out, and his voice, god, it makes her want to stay. “Miss Lockhart.”

Right. Miss Lockhart.

“Bye, Strife!” Aerith yells. “You better have given me a 110 on that _Loveless_ quiz, like you promised!”

Professor Strife gives a kind laugh.

“Of course, Miss Gainsborough.”

And all throughout the walk back to Aerith’s dorm, Tifa wonders why she feels so devastated.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa is upset.

She’s very upset. She’s been fluctuating from three feelings: longing, sadness, and rage. And right now, rage is dominating her psyche, pooling in her spine like she’s a volcano just waiting to erupt. October has finally come to an end, and it’s Halloween. Customary for Halloween is for Zack to throw a costume party at his parents’ house. It’s a party she looks forward to every year, one that isn’t clogged-up by campus idiots like that frat parties often are. This party only has people Zack knows, and most of the time, they’re good, tolerable people who Tifa enjoys being around. The ambience is inviting, the music loud and blaring through her sternum, and she’d like to join the wave of moving bodies on the dancefloor, but she doesn’t, because she’s mad.

Why is she mad? Because couples are _disgusting_.

Reno and Elena are back together this week. Their costumes aren’t exactly matching; Elena’s a vampire, and Reno is a pregnant nun. But Reno’s been sitting on the couch all night, Elena perched on his lap, her arms around his neck. They’ve been sneaking kisses, at one point started making out profusely before Zack yelled at them.

And Zack and Aerith. They’re dressed as ketchup and mustard, respectively. And they’re so _cute_. So jovial as they dance around and drink and eat candy. They’ve been together for two years going on three, ever since they started college. And they’re one of the only constants in Tifa’s life, a love that never stops flourishing and forgiving. A love that always persists, no matter what, no matter how bad things get. Aerith and Zack are happy together, and Tifa wants nothing less for them.

But, right now, she fucking hates them, because they’re so _cute_ she wants to vomit.

“I hate couples,” Tifa grumbles to Rufus. He’s the only other single one of their group. He’ll understand. “They’re nauseating.”

“Not really,” he says. Tifa blinks at him. “I think my girlfriend and I are all right.”

Tifa coughs, chokes on the beer in her mouth.

“Since when did you have a girlfriend?!”

“Since last week,” he says plainly. “Her name is Yuffie, and I love her.”

Tifa groans, holding her head in her hands. Betrayal. This is betrayal. She can’t believe she remains the only single person in their group of friends.

And what’s even worse? She likes someone. And that someone likes her back. And yet, they can’t fucking be together. Did he have to be her professor? Could he not have been a fellow student? That would have been perfect. She’d even take a teaching assistant. That’d be okay, too.

But no. Tifa had to fall for her fucking literature professor. And the worst part about it?

She’s in such a _cute_ schoolgirl costume. And he’s not even fucking here to see it.

(She bought this costume before the semester started. This was all entirely a coincidence.)

This is a tragedy. Tifa’s life is collapsing before her eyes. Also, she’s drunk. Pretty drunk. She’s had three, maybe four beers. Maybe five. Honestly, who’s keeping count? It doesn’t matter that it’s a Wednesday night and she has class tomorrow morning. It’s Halloween, and she’s upset, and she’s going to drink, okay.

Perhaps she’ll get so drunk the image of Reno and Elena and Zack and Aerith blurs before her eyes. Yeah. That’d be good.

More beers later, Tifa’s veering off the edge of her control, stumbling towards the dance floor with Rude, a friend from her painting class. Rufus, Aerith, and Zack join soon after. And Tifa’s having fun, maybe. Losing herself to the music, closes her eyes and focuses on only the melody, the deep basses thrumming through her veins. It’s nice, maybe. Dancing with her friends.

But Zack is behind Aerith, has his hands on her hips (as well as he can through the fucking mustard costume). And they’re rolling into each other, laughing and getting closer, so close Zack, eventually, sweeps her off the dance floor and heads for a room upstairs.

And Tifa’s _jealous_. So _unbearably_ jealous. She wants that. Wants what they have.

With Cloud. She wants it with Cloud.

And it’s stupid. It’s all so stupid. She’s drunk, barely able to keep upright, and _still_ , she’s _still_ thinking of him. She can’t chase away the thoughts of him. Would he get behind her like that? Get so close his chest presses into her back? Would his hands sneak under her shirt and up her skirt? Would he like the costume, the short skirt that barely covers her ass, the stockings that leave the tops of her thighs unhidden? Would he want to rip the costume off and fuck her like the bratty, naughty schoolgirl she wants to be for him?

Would he laugh into her ear, hold her close and kiss her sweetly as they danced the night away? 

Maybe.

Tifa hates her life.

She leaves the dance floor, trips and nearly falls onto her face as she does. When Rufus and Rude ask her where she’s going, she gives them a disgruntled, unintelligible response. She doesn’t know where she’s going herself, but she’d just like to go away. To flee from the chaos, because the music isn’t working. The alcohol isn’t working. The suggestive leers she’s getting from men all around her aren’t working.

She wants only one man to be looking at her.

Upstairs, it’s a bit calmer, only the ghosts of the music vibrating through the floor. She goes to the bathroom, shuts the door, looks at herself in the mirror. Her pigtails are loose. Her lip gloss is smudged, wiped away from all the bottles she drank. She leans her palms on the sink, and she takes in a deep breath.

She takes out her smartphone. And blearily, she looks for the desired number.

844-7777. These circumstances can’t be any worse than the ones under which she called him last time. And besides, she’s drunk. And she wants him to see how cute she looks in her costume, goddamn it.

_Will you be a good girl for me?_

_Bad girl. You’re being punished. Do as you’re told._

_God_. God, god, god. _Fuck_.

“Hello?”

Oh. Oh _shit_. He actually answered. What time is it?

“Miss Lockhart?”

“Hi,” she says, twirls a strand of her hair around her finger. Thankfully, in the bathroom with the door closed, she can hear him clearly. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“It’s only ten,” he says.

Oh. Is it really? Why did Zack start the party so early? 

“You seem like the type to sleep early,” she drawls, bending over to rest her elbows on the sink. “Lame.”

“Responsible, you mean.” He chuckles, and it’s a nice sound, a husked rumble that makes her spine tingle. Yeah. He’s _so_ responsible. “It’s important to get enough sleep.”

Tifa begins drawing absent patterns over the faucet. 

“You didn’t care much about sleep when you were fucking me the other night.”

She can hear his breath hitch in his throat.

“Miss Lockhart,” he begins. “Are you drunk?”

Tifa lets out a little giggle. Yeah, actually. She’s pretty fucking drunk. But she doesn’t care all that much. She always makes the best decisions when she’s drunk. Like taking him into the back room with her at her bar and letting his tongue work in between her legs. Like calling him in the dead of night when she was getting off to the thought of him. And he listened for seventeen minutes, and he told her how much he loved hearing her.

“Maybe,” she breathes out. She’s drunk and needy. Needy for him, and she thought she’d had her fill of him on Sunday. But she’s greedy, wanting more and more of him until there’s nothing left for them to give to each other. “Wanna know what I dressed up as?”

He hums. “I’d love to.”

“A schoolgirl.”

He hums again, and when he speaks, his voice sounds strained. “Oh? Did you, now?”

And before she knows it, her hand is snaking down her body, and she feels like she’s burning, suffocated in ashes, the fire in her core coming alive and charring away all her better senses. She lets her fingers linger at the hem of her skirt, around the top of her stocking.

“I wish you could see me,” she says, and her hand goes up, dips between her thighs to feel the wetness that’s gathered, soaked through the cotton of her panties. She’s a hopeless mess, getting this aroused from nothing, only from the thought and desire of him. “I’m so wet. I’m being a bad girl.”

She presses her finger into her panties, between her lips and over her clit, hard and throbbing. She sighs, and he groans, one from the very depths of his chest.

“ _Fuck_ , Tifa, you’re driving me crazy.”

They were supposed to leave each other alone. But it’s okay. No one has to know about this.

And besides, he’s the one who answered her call.

“Where are you right now?”

“In the bathroom,” she says. “The door is locked.”

“Good,” he says. “Take off your panties.”

She _loves_ being ordered around by him. She obeys him immediately, holds her phone securely between her cheek and shoulder as she uses both hands to shimmy out of her panties. She tosses them to the side.

“Is there a tub?”

Tifa looks to her right. Yes, there is a tub indeed.

“Prop one of your legs onto it. Spread yourself out.”

Tifa does as she’s told, spreads herself wide, curls her toes against the tub as the cool air hits her most sensitive flesh. She bunches her skirt out of the way, looks down and at herself, dips her fingers in between her folds and gathers the wetness. She can’t help but remember their beginnings. She’d been standing like this similarly back then, and he told her to ride his face.

She leans back against the wall, the first touch of her finger against her clit sending her nerves into pandemonium.

“I wish it was you,” she very nearly cries. “I wish you were here.”

“It’s all right, darling.” And his voice is quiet, the timbre like gravel in her throat, soothing her from the inside out. But she’s tied up taut, her limbs stiff and rigid, and all she wants is him. Him, all of him, his tongue and his fingers and cock. And all she has right now is his words, and she desperately clings onto each and every one. “I’m here. I want you to spread your lips and imagine it was me. Imagine it was my fingers.”

She’s trying. God, she’s trying. But her fingers are much smaller and softer and slenderer than his, and they’re not enough. She spreads her lips, her pussy throbbing, aching, weeping, feeling so empty without him. She wishes he was here.

“Imagine it was my tongue there, licking at you.”

She tries. The texture of his tongue felt so nice against her hot, wet flesh. He’d dip it in and out of her hole, and she’d liked the way it’d wiggle. And then he’d move up to her clit, and she’d grind the underside of the hard nub against his mouth, would hold onto his hair as she rolled her hips into him. And he’d let her, would hold her even after she came and was recoiling from the sensitivity.

“Touch your clit, Tifa,” he orders, his voice in a low growl. “Rub at it, just like I do.”

And Tifa does, takes the pruned pads of her fingers and rubs circles into her clit. She’s light at first, and then she gets harder, faster, her voice breaking in her throat. She calls out his name as she touches herself, grinds her hips into her own fingers.

“Cloud,” she moans, the bathroom walls echoing the name back at her. “Cloud, it feels so good.”

“That’s right, love, keep going.” His voice sounds breathless. “Make yourself feel good.”

“Are you touching yourself, too?”

“I’m imagining that it’s you. Your mouth around my cock instead of my hand.”

And the image of it drives her manic. Professor Strife on his bed, throwing his laptop to the side and pulling down his pants. His cock, hard and throbbing just like her pussy, the flesh hot and red with protruding veins, the head leaking with cum, sensitive to the touch, His hand, his pretty fingers, stroking and stroking as he thinks of her, as he whispers filth into her ear. And it’s this image that flings her over the edge. With a few more rubs into her clit, with him clear in her mind, with his husked voice in her ear, Tifa comes, so hard her bones quiver, and she folds in on herself, her legs shaking so hard she has to grab the wall for leverage. And she’s moaning into the phone, makes sure he hears every single sound she makes.

“Sir,” she whimpers. “Sir, I came so hard.”

“Good girl,” he says. “Such a good little slut for me.”

She lowers the leg that’d been propped on the tub, rubs her slick thighs together. And she can hear him panting, moaning softly, urgently. 

“Are you going to come?” she asks, but he doesn’t respond, moans her name even louder. “Imagine it’s my mouth, sir. All around your cock. My tongue licking at the head. Your hands grabbing at my hair as you fuck my face.”

He groans, and it’s precious music to her ears.

“Come into my mouth, sir. I’ll swallow it all.”

He comes now, and Tifa recognizes the sounds. The way his voice cracks on a call of her name, the way his breath shudders out of him. She wishes she could watch him as he comes down from the high, wishes he was coming on her, painting her in his seed. Coming in her, so deep the warmth bursts through her. 

She wishes he was here.

When the haze leaves her, she still feels fogged, like she’s trapped in a cold car with frosted windows. Maybe the alcohol has to do with it as well, but the clarity doesn’t come to her. She lingers in the grasp of her bad decisions, what she did but shouldn’t have.

She called him. And they _masturbated_ together. 

“Shit,” he curses. “Sorry. Hold on. I made a mess. I need a towel.”

There’s muffled shuffling. And he’s still there, but when he’s away from the phone, Tifa stares at the ceiling of Zack’s bathroom, drops her gaze to look at the panties she threw away. Her body is still in flames, and she wants more and more and more.

She has it bad. God, she has it _so_ bad, and she doesn’t know what to do.

She wants to be like Aerith and Zack. She wants what they have.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> id like to thank my lovely horny jail partner in crime roxe for letting me commission [this drawing of tifa in a schoolgirl costume with professor strife](https://twitter.com/Roxlewd/status/1355652797086261251?s=20) it added 17 years onto my lifespan i love it so much (please go support him he's an AMAZING artist) <333
> 
> thanks for reading ;)


	11. 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i love you all and i hope you like this chapter
> 
> i updated the tags of this story since we're going to be getting into some really heavy subject matter soon also warning for this chapter: depressive thoughts
> 
> unedited bc im LAZYYYYYYYYYY

Tifa wonders why she always does this to herself. 

It’s the afternoon. She has Midgar Literature in an hour. And she’s lying in bed, rethinking every decision she’s ever made in her life. Her world is doused in a big fog, fragments of blurred memories rolling back into her head like dice on a craps table. They’re scattered and incoherent, and it’s hard to piece them back together when her skull feels like it’s splitting on itself. Every time she drinks, she thinks her hangover can’t be worse than the last. And every time, she’s proven wrong. This one is _deathly_.

Zack did have some good beer. Zack’s house. The Halloween party. Dancing, ketchup and mustard. Tifa’s still in her schoolgirl costume.

Schoolgirl costume. Oh. _Oh_.

She’d gone into the bathroom and called someone she shouldn’t have. And they both did what they shouldn’t have, touched themselves and listened to each other’s voices, purring encouragements and visceral moans. 

It was wonderful. She won’t deny it. Hearing him whisper those filthy words while she touched herself was _glorious_. 

But _god_ is she a fucking _disaster_. Weren’t they supposed to stay away from each other? Tifa groans, and the motion stabs at her throbbing head even more, and she wants to curl over and _die_. But she can’t, because she has class. She has to be a functioning human being.

Fuck being human. She wishes she was a plant.

She picks up her smartphone, and of course, it has to inconvenience her with its low battery. It’ll barely get any charge before she has to leave the house, and then, she has to figure out how to plug it in somewhere in school. She swipes the screen unlocked, and she’s greeted with a shocking sight.

The sight of _her_. A picture of her. Multiple pictures of her in the costume. She took pictures last night? She doesn’t even remember that. And as she scrolls through the pictures, she realizes that they get less and less...innocent. And more and more _revealing_. One of them is of her bare breasts with her blouse pushed away. Another is of her fingers between her legs under her skirt. Damn, how the fuck did she take pictures at these weird angles?

More importantly, did she take these pictures for the reason she thinks she did? She opens up her messages app. Looks to see that, thankfully, the dreaded number is not there. 844-7777. She did not send them to him.

Although she wants to. She really, _really_ wants to. She looks too cute in this outfit for him not to see it. And those inappropriate pictures are too good for him not to see them. Aerith always sends pictures like this to Zack, some of which Tifa took herself.

Aerith. Zack. The beautiful, stable love they share, a love that Tifa can’t have, no matter how much she wants it.

Not now. Not when they’re student and professor. Maybe after she’s graduated. Maybe after she’s dropped out. She isn’t sure what’s going to happen first, because does she really have it in her to complete her degree? She’s not really sure.

Angrily, she swipes the pictures away. No, she won’t be sending them to him, no matter how much she wants to. If someone happens to find them, it’ll be very, _very_ bad for him, and she cannot put him under that risk. Although she wants to. God, she wants to. The phone call wasn’t enough. She wants to be a bratty schoolgirl for him. She wants to be his.

In every single way, she wants to be his. In conclusion, she’s a fucking _mess_.

When she’s leaning off her bed to find her charger, wrestles with the cable a bit, she feels a vibration in her hand. Curiously, she looks at her screen to see who has sent her a text message. It isn’t Aerith, like normal.

It’s her dad. Tifa’s dad. She shoots up from the bed, ignores the way her skull rattles, pounding against her brain. Dad. Her dad.

_I asked my boss to let me come home for the weekend, and he said yes. I’m bringing souvenirs._

_Dad_

He’s...coming home? For the weekend? He’s finally coming home? Tifa thinks back, and she hardly remembers the last time he came home. It was during the summer, when her days were warm and sunny and free of the prison of school. And he’d stayed for the weekend, and he went right back to Wutai. Of course he did.

She wants to be angry. To punish him for not being here. For all the times he said he would come back and didn’t, all the nights she waited for him, clung to his hollow promises. She should be angry at him.

Instead, Tifa smiles at the text message. She tells him she’ll make his favorite meal. And even though her head is killing her, even though she has to go to class and face Professor Strife after what they did last night, she finds herself to be happy. Soaring, leaving behind the shackles of her worries. They seem so trivial now.

Her dad’s coming home. They’ll spend the weekend together. He’s coming home.

Tifa gets up from her bed, peels the schoolgirl costume off, and gets ready for the day.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tifa feels...chipper.

She thought she’d feel weighed-down by the fatigue of her hangover, but she’s feeling energetic. She was even a bit early getting to campus, and she was able to get herself an iced latte, the caffeine of the espresso instantly waking up her trillion cells. She walks into the lecture hall with it, meets Professor Strife’s eyes when he looks at her.

He looks away immediately, color rippling onto the tops of his cheeks. She expected that.

They’d indulged in each other a bit too much last night. She won’t think about it.

She rushes to her seat, next to which is where Aerith is, clicking away at her laptop, a bottled coffee drink in her hand. Rufus looks haggard, darkness shaded under his eyes and a canned energy drink perched on his notebook. Reno, understandably, isn’t here; he had far too much liquor last night.

“Hi!”

“Hey!” Aerith greets her back. “You’re looking happy!”

Tifa is happy. She knows it’s a fleeting feeling, and it’s only circumstantial, and once her dad leaves on Monday, she’ll be alone within the white walls again. But she’ll ignore all of that just for now. She wants to bask in the feeling. To carry it inside her for as long as she can, to savor it. 

She was in Professor Strife’s apartment the last time she felt like this.

“My dad’s coming home for the weekend.”

Aerith’s eyes brighten, a light that’s been switched on. “Yay! Finally! I haven’t seen him in forever!” But something seems to register within Aerith’s mind, and the light has been turned back off. “Oh no. Wait. I’m going away with Zack this weekend. Remember?”

Ah, yes. A couple’s trip to a ski lodge in the mountains. Tifa nearly forgot about that.

“I won’t get to see him.”

“It’s all right,” Tifa says, and she takes a sip of her latte, cold sweetness bursting on her tongue. “Next time.”

Next time. Tifa has no idea when next time will actually come. Months from now, she’s sure.

She won’t think about it.

Professor Strife starts class a couple of minutes later, by the time Tifa has finished her latte and condensation beads start to crawl down the sides of the plastic cup. It’s an easy hour; all they do is go over the _Loveless_ quiz they’d taken the previous class. Another student passes Tifa’s quiz back to her, as the professor looks too afraid to even leave his desk. That’s understandable.

They’d said some very, _very_ filthy things to each other that night. Tifa tries not to think about it. But god, she still wishes he could have seen her in the schoolgirl costume.

(Maybe next time.)

Tifa’s gotten a perfect score. The 100 written in fraying, red ink at the top of the paper makes her grin. The note he’d left for her on the back makes her grin even wider. Of course she did well. He’d spent so much time preparing her, carved out every simile, every motif, every detail with such precision and care, created a masterpiece from the nothing that’d previously registered in her brain. She has a lot of trouble paying attention to the novels in class. For obvious reasons.

She’s going to struggle with _The Ancients_ as well, isn’t she? Because she can never, ever stop her mind from straying. From melting within the veins in his arms and the cold sky of his eyes. She’s doing it even now, as he jots down a couple of notes on the board, helps one of the stupid assholes (Jared? Jason? Jonathan? Why would she remember?) with a particularly difficult question. Tifa was able to answer this question with no trouble, and that fact pleases her.

Fuck Jared/Jason/Jonathan. He and his bottomfeeder friend are jerks.

The class ends just as quickly as it started. The students all gather their things, chatter spilt in between the sound of metal chairs scraping on tile and slamming books. Rufus and Aerith talk about what they want to eat for lunch today.

“Pizza,” Aerith says right away. “Reno’s bitchass isn’t here.”

Ah, yes. Reno who does not like pizza all that much. The anomaly of the human race. Rufus nods, and he takes out his smartphone in order to place the order at their favorite restaurant. And as Tifa walks out with her friends, something pulls her back, tethers her to the floor of the lecture hall.

Professor Strife’s voice, a delicate song soothing her ears.

“Miss Lockhart.”

Aerith stops, her body stiff. Rufus is busy ordering the pizzas.

“Yes, one with extra cheeseーno, not pepperoni. When did I say pepperoni?” A pause. “Excuse me? I can buy _and_ sell you.”

Rufus is just as much of an idiot as Reno is.

“Go ahead,” Tifa says, gently nudging Aerith forward. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Aerith nods. “I’ll wait outside.” She chances a glance at the hallway. “You know. To keep watch.”

What would Tifa do without Aerith?

Professor Strife leans against his desk, his arms crossed, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s been avoiding her eyes all class, but right now, he looks straight at her, the azure of them pooling into the depths of her core. She never really gets tired of looking at them, of the way they strip her bare of her defenses in a way no other eyes ever can. There’s a lot that only he can do to her, make her go crazy, make her cling to each and every one of his touches.

The power he has over her is staggering. The pull is palpable, a sweet, heady weight on her tongue, and she wishes she could get closer. His features are relieved of their normal, professional hardness, and a softness lingers within the spaces, his brow lax, the slightest of quirks in his mouth.

“Fantastic job on the quiz.”

Wow. The boost those words give to her ego is dangerous.

“Thank you,” she says, and she chances a step closer. “It was all thanks to you.” She pauses, and the words linger in her mouth, trapped right behind her teeth, and with a breath, she lets them out. “You’re a great teacher.”

It’s only a fact. He’s an incredible teacher. He was born to teach others. But Tifa has never said this to him aloud, she realizes now. His features flash, a bit caught off guard and startled, but they begin to fall again, and his ghost of a smile grows wider.

“Thank you.”

That should be the end of it, but Tifa remains here, still tethered to this one spot. She bounces a bit on the balls of her feet, clasps her hands behind her back. Should she talk about the party? Should she talk about the pictures she took for him? Should she talk about how she’ll very well need his tutoring for the next novel?

His lips part, and he fills in the silence.

“You’re looking bright today.”

Bright. It’s an odd choice of word. Tifa tilts her head a bit.

“What do you mean by ‘bright?’”

His arms unwind, his palms going to lean onto his desk. He shrugs a bit.

“Uh, well, happier,” he says. “Chipper.”

Well, Tifa _is_ chipper today. It must be written all over her face. She smiles, and so what if the happiness won’t last? So what if he’s only coming home for a weekend after months of giving her empty promises? Doesn’t she deserve to let her worries go and just...breathe? For a little while, doesn’t she deserve to be at peace?

She does, she thinks. She deserves it.

“My dad’s coming home for the weekend.”

Professor Strife nods a bit, his smile pleasant. “You must be excited.”

“I am.” And the words gush out of her in a jumbled stream before she can stop them. “He hasn’t been home in a while. And yeah, I was mad at him for that. He kept saying he’d come home, and he never did. But this time, he’s actually coming. He told me his flight lands at four on Saturday.”

He’ll be gone on Monday, but it’s fine. It’s fine.

“He works really far away,” Tifa says. “In Wutai. So, I’ve been on my own a lot. But I’m happy he’s coming home. I’m gonna make his favorite meal.”

And when she’s done, there’s a quietness, a lull in the air, and she cannot read his features. Softer than they had been before. His smile wider, so wide it tugs all the breath out of her until she’s floundering, until she’s flushed and warm like a little girl in love. She twiddles her thumbs, suddenly feeling too conscious of the space she fills.

“Sorry. You didn’t ask, butー”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says quietly. “I want to know. I’m happy when you’re happy, Tifa.”

Her heart falters in her chest.

_Don’t say things like that. Don’t say that._

And Tifa thinks. Lets her mind go rabid. Imagines things she shouldn’t.

If their circumstances were different, maybe he could have been hers. And maybe she could have introduced him to her dad this weekend.

And maybe, they could have been happy together. Right now, right at this moment, with nothing in their way.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Dad likes chicken curry with cold vegetable noodles. It’s been his favorite meal ever since she can remember. When she was small, and her dad worked long hours but still managed to come home every night, Mom would have the chicken curry ready for him. And he’d kiss her on the cheek before he’d sit down, would take Tifa into his lap and feed her every other bite as he laughed about anecdotes from the work day. Mom would tell him about the stupid things Tifa did during the day, and they were happy. Their little family of three, happily nestled away in their small house on the outskirts of sector seven of Midgar.

They’d been happy then. But that was before that day. The day when everything began flooding over. The day everything fell apart and Tifa truly became alone.

_Stop. Don’t think about it. Not now._

Mom never told her how to make the curry and noodles. And she doesn’t really want to ask her aunts. They never bothered to keep in contact with her, anyways. So, Tifa searches up a recipe online, chooses the one she thinks looks the most delectable, and she gets to work.

On this Saturday, she woke early. Rose along with the sun, went grocery shopping, got some iced coffee. Told Barret that she’d certainly say hi to her dad on his behalf. She won’t be going to the bar this week, either, but Barret’s letting her make up her shifts later on.

Tifa got to work on cleaning the house. She’d let the dirt fester over time, and it was tough, grueling, tiring, scrubbing tables and mopping floors. She picked up all the stray clothes from the floor of her bedroom, threw them into the wash. She vacuumed every carpet, swept all the wood, rearranged all the random trinkets on the coffee table and fireplace. She especially tidied up the kitchen, readied the space for a long day of cooking. The curry has to be simmered slowly. The custard has to bake in the oven for many hours.

She’s making a banana custard too. Not because it’s her dad’s favorite. But because she likes it. And they should celebrate with something sweet, shouldn’t they?

At around noon, Aerith sends her a text message saying that she and Zack have successfully made it to the ski lodge. And Tifa sends a message back, telling the love birds to enjoy their weekend. And she gets back to work, because her dad will be here in about five hours, and she still has so much to do. The noodles aren’t close to being done. The chicken is still not cooked all the way through. And she’s busy whipping cream for the banana custard.

But she’s not fretting. No, Tifa’s not fretting. She’s...happy. Excited. Enjoys herself as she cooks, sways her body to the thrum of her favorite songs, humming over the kitchen walls. She’s excited. Her dad’s coming home, and they’re going to have dinner together, and she’ll catch him up on all the things going on in her life.

Well...maybe not _everything_. Not the fact that she isn’t really doing that well in her classes. And _especially_ not Professor Strife. No. _Fuck_ no.

Dad would _not_ be happy to know about Professor Strife. Not at all.

(She’ll keep that detail to herself.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

By four, Tifa’s done with the meal.

She finished it a bit early, and right now, the curry is steaming in its pot, the scent of it permuting the entire house, woven into each and every fiber. But if she takes it out and pours it into a serving dish, it’ll go cold. The noodles are already on the table, and she’d tried some of them, fell in love with the cool burst of savory flavor and the way the vegetables crunched against her teeth. The pudding is done, and she’d painstakingly decorated the top with slices of banana and dollops of whipped cream before popping it into the fridge to chill.

And now, she waits. His plane has just about landed, and it’ll take some time for him to get a taxi and make the hour ride back home. She’d asked him if he wanted her to pick him up, but he said no; he’d get back on his own. Tifa did not question it.

She looks at her smartphone, opens up the messages app.

_Good morning Dad have a great flight!_

_Thank you, my dear._

And after that, nothing. Silence.

_Are you on the plane yet?_

_This curry smells amazing! I hope it’s just like Mom used to make_

_Have you landed yet?_

He has not responded. She called him twice. No answer.

Tifa tries not to worry. He does this often. Hardly responds to her. It’s normal for him, so there’s no reason for her to worry. But it’s gnawing at her like a hungry animal, her stomach lurching and lurching with each minute that passes. What if he got into a car accident on his way here? What if the plane crashed? What if he had a heart attack on the plane and died?

_No. Stop. Shut up, Tifa. You’re being unreasonable._

Tifa sighs. She sits at the dining room table, and she waits, because that’s all she can do.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Five comes. Their house is about an hour’s drive from the airport. He should be here.

Tifa goes into the living room, looks outside. It’s November by now, and November comes with bone-rattling shivers, a sun that gives up on them far too early, and the world is already submerged in a lonely kind of darkness. Tifa looks outside, streetlights dancing across her vision, and she misses the sun.

Nothing. Cars rolling by, zooming right past her. None of them stop. None of them are him. More text messages. More calls. And she gets nothing but silence back.

Still, she waits. It’s all she can do.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Six comes. The curry has gone cold; the noodles have gone warm. The peaks of whipped cream on the banana pudding have wilted.

He is not here.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Seven comes. Tifa turns on the television, flips the channel to a show she particularly likes. And she waits, the white walls crushing her with their silence.

He is not here.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Eight comes. Tifa’s trembling a bit by now, and she wonders why.

She calls. And she calls. And she calls.

“Dad,” she says right after the beep comes, mocking her with its shrillness, “are you okay? I’m really worried. You were supposed to be here three hours ago.”

She hangs up. Everything has gone unanswered. Her calls, her voicemails, her text messages. No response. Nothing. For hours, nothing.

Still, she waits. She can do nothing else.

He is not here.

**.**

**.**

**.**

When nine comes, her smartphone chimes.

She lunges for it with a heady urgency, struggles to swipe the screen open. It’s a text message. 

_I’m sorry for worrying you, Tifa. I won’t make it this weekend; something came up. I’ll mail the souvenirs over to you._

_Dad_

Tifa reads the message again. And again. And again. She reads it over and over, hoping that somehow, the blurriness of her vision will be able to change the words.

The words do not change. They won’t. And her vision gets blurrier. Tears. She’s crying? But why? Shouldn’t she be used to this?

He’s never fucking home. Ever. So, why would that change now? She shouldn’t be mad at him. She should be mad at herself for believing his words. For actually thinking he’d come back this time. Why would he come back? He never fucking comes back.

She throws the phone away, and she screams, long and hard into her hands. She cries and cries, and she can’t stop it, feels herself breaking like a dam, flooding and flooding and flooding.

The unfulfilled promises. The white walls. The emptiness. The loneliness. The silence. It all lashes at her, makes her chest cave in on itself, and she doesn’t know why she can’t stop crying. She should be used to this.

He is not here. He is never, ever here. And it shouldn’t even matter. 

Tifa’s alone. She always will be.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Ten comes. Tifa’s been crying for an hour.

She lies on the couch, the television white noise behind the chaos of her thoughts. Her heart’s in a disarray. Her mind is in pandemonium, and no matter what she does, she can’t stop the trembling, can’t bite away the tears. Fresh ones come to join the dried streams on her cheeks. The cushion is soaked under her.

She should have expected this. She should have known.

She wishes her mom was here.

And it’s stupid. It’s so stupid. She wanted to be happy. She wanted to pretend she was okay, just for a little while, just for a weekend.

She couldn’t even have that. The world didn’t even let her have that.

And she’s tired. She’s so, _so_ exhausted, down to the marrow of her bones. She’s tired of being sad. Of feeling like this.

Of being alone. She wishes her mom was here.

Aerith is gone. And Tifa’s desperate. Desperate for something, anything. For warmth. For peace. For someone to rid her of the sadness, just for a little while. That’s all she asks for. Just for a little while.

She dials the number through the washed streaks of color in her sight. He answers on the second ring.

“Tifa?”

His voice douses her in sweetness, in the serenity she’s longed for for so hard. Her breath staggers out of her throat, and she wills herself not to cry again.

“Hi,” she stammers, sniffs a bit. Her voice is a wet croak out of her throat. “Are you...are you busy?”

Professor Strife says he’s on his way, and he hangs up the phone.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for this chapter being shorter and rushed i felt it was best to write it this way
> 
> thanks for reading <33333


	12. staying (and picking up the pieces)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooooooooo i didn't expect to be able to write a chapter this week but i love you all so i did
> 
> i hope youre all having a fantastic day <3
> 
> warning: depressive thoughts, panic attack, this chapter is unedited because (you guessed it) im LAZY

By ten-thirty, Tifa’s a bit soberer, a bit more logical.

She called him. And he asked no questions, said he’d be over without any hesitation. And normally, it’d be Aerith who did that, Aerith who’s always there for her no matter what. But Aerith is not here, far away at a ski lodge with the love of her life. The love of her life.

Tifa takes another swig of the wine. Bitter notes of grape hum over her palate, and she thinks. She wonders. 

He’s coming to the rescue. It should be comical, how he cares for her more than her own father does.

Tifa halts those thoughts before the fresh wave of hot tears has the chance to fully form. She hears a tentative, careful knock on the door, and she blinks her eyes, looks outside at a world that’s gone blind in darkness. Then, there’s a voice.

“Tifa?”

Not Miss Lockhart, but Tifa. And she wonders why she feels so vulnerable whenever he says her name, pronounces both of the syllables with such care that she’s weak in the knees, feels herself folding over. She doesn’t get it. Maybe she’s just emotional. Maybe she’s sinking, and sinking, and she needs to cling to something to stay afloat.

Maybe it’s love. She doesn’t know.

She takes another swig before she opens the door.

“Hi.” And she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Professor Strife looks a bit startled, wind swept through the wild strands of his hair. He’s swathed in comfort, a cotton hooded sweatshirt and cotton sweatpants, and they’re very different than the button downs and slacks he wears in class, the t-shirt and pajama pants he wore on the lazy Sunday they spent together.

He’s beautiful in anything he wears. A type of beautiful that frazzles her to her very core, and maybe she expected that familiar, nefarious buildup of heat inside her. Maybe she expected to get red at the cheeks and itchy with the need to  _ touch  _ him, to get her hands on him, to have his hands on her. But none of that is here right now, and maybe the wine isn’t doing its job in dulling her better senses.

Maybe it’s love. She doesn’t know.

“Are you okay?”

He steps close to her after he shuts the door, gently pries the wine bottle from her fingers. His palms come over her cheeks, and he cradles her face so softly she’d think him to be rose petals, grazing her skin in a delicate breeze.

She wants to cry again, and she wonders why.

“Tifa?”

“I’m fine,” she says, and she shakes her head a bit, turns away from him, because she knows that if she looks at him, if she lets his eyes swallow her whole, then she’ll never be able to recover. “I wanted to eat dinner with you.”

“At ten p.m.?”

“Yes.” She’s able to paint on a smile. She leaves his grasp, and the act of it hurts her viscerally. She goes for the wine bottle, drinks until it’s spilling over the sides of her mouth. “What, did you think I wanted to do something else with you?”

Her voice is teasing, edged in flirtatiousness, but it doesn’t seem to work on him. She makes the mistake of looking at his eyes, bright and wide and like the sunny sky she misses so dearly. Melting and melting. Capturing.

“Tifa, where’s your dad?”

Tifa is rattled, like she’s just been struck by lightning. It takes her a moment to recover, and when she does, swallows back the lump clogging her throat, she goes to the dining table, where the cold noodles rest in their pretty, floral serving dish.

“Not here,” she says quietly. “Please, do  _ not  _ ask about him.”

Professor Strife reaches for her, his hand wrapped around her bicep.

“But Tifaー”

“I  _ don’t  _ want to talk about him!”

Tifa’s voice breaks much like herself. Shattered pieces of a girl scattered around her, and she can’t ever hope to pick them up. Why did she call him here? To help her pick up the pieces? But that’s not his job, is it? He doesn’t have to do anything for her, because he’s her professor, and he should have remained just as such. But that’s not anyone’s job, because it’s Tifa’s pieces, and who’s going to put them back together if not herself?

She doesn’t have the strength to do it. She’s tired. So, so tired. And the thoughts, the chaos, the loneliness, it never ends. When can she be happy? 

She called him here because she doesn’t know what she would have done if remained alone in this house all night. And that’s the sad, sad truth.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I called you here, and I’m just yelling at you…”

“It’s okay.” He presses himself against her, a loose but warm hug, as if she’s so fragile he’s afraid of shattering her. Tifa drowns in the warmth willingly, closes her eyes and breathes in the remnants of his cool mint cologne, of the lavender fabric softener he loves so much. His palm caresses her head, down her hair in a tender motion, and she holds onto him, bunches her fingers into his sweatshirt. “I’m sorry for pressing.”

He does it because he cares. He cares about her.

He pulls back a bit to look at her.

“What are we eating?” he asks, the moon caught in the glint of his glasses. “It looks delicious.”

She manages a smile, this one genuine, softened in the colors of his warmth. “Chicken curry and cold noodles,” she says, leaves his embrace and walks into the kitchen. “And banana pudding.”

Professor Strife winces a bit.

“Oh...nice.”

“What?” Tifa gives him a puzzled look. 

“I don’t like bananas…” he says, and then, his eyes go wide in panic, and he lifts up his hands. “But that’s okay! I’ll eat your pudding! I’m sure it’s amazing!”

Tifa absolutely cannot believe what she’s hearing.

“You don’t like  _ bananas _ ?! What kind of heathen are you?!”

He pouts. “They’re weird and slimy, Tifa.”

She doesn’t know why she’s so offended on the behalf of a fruit. “They are  _ not _ ! You take that back!”

He crosses his arms, holds his ground. “I said what I said.”

“You are wrong.” Tifa shakes her head in disappointment. “I cannot believe I let a man who doesn’t like bananas come inside me.”

It’s his turn to be offended. “ _ Hey _ !”

And Tifa laughs, bellows deep from the bottom of her heart, like she’s forgotten everything that made her sad tonight. Cloud’s presence around her is like she’s been submerged in peace, and all the sadness, all the bad thoughts scramble to flee before they all drown. He lingers in the kitchen with her as she warms up the chicken curry in its pot. She takes the banana pudding out of the fridge, frowns at how ruined the whipped cream decorations now look on the top.

“You have any more whipped cream?” Professor Strife asks. “I can fix it.”

Tifa hands him a piping bag full of whipped cream, and she peeks over his shoulder to watch him. But he steps forward, blocking her sight with his back.

“No. Look at it when I’m done.”

Tifa rolls her eyes, but she obliges.

When the curry is up to temperature, hot but not boiling so the chicken doesn’t fall apart, she turns off the stove, and she ladles the curry into two bowls, the intricate flower detailing on the rims matching that of the larger serving dishes. Mom always did that, made sure all the china matched whenever she'd serve guests who came over.

“I’m done!”

Tifa goes over to him, looks at the masterpiece he’s created. He’s turned the melted, wilted peaks of whipped cream into a messy drawing of...her. A round shape for her head, her fringe shaping the right side of her face. Dots for eyes, some little strokes for eyelashes. And a big, big smile, taking up the entirety of her head, and above her, her name, uppercase letters carved out with care. Banana slices border the entire picture.

She’s impressed. And she’s more impressed by his grin, the sheer glee in it, like he’s a child bringing home an A to his parent. And something twinges in Tifa’s chest. Maybe she’s breathless. Maybe she’s so flattered she wants to laugh. Maybe her heart’s been stolen, and there’s no way for her to ever get it back.

Maybe it’s love.

“I love it,” she says. “I love it so much. You didn’t tell me you were an artist, too.”

He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I’m a man of many talents.”

That he is. Tifa gives a lilting laugh as she brings the pudding to the table.

“I don’t want to ruin it, though.” 

She likes the whipped cream picture so much it makes it her not want to eat the pudding. So, she takes out her smartphone, and she snaps a picture of it. To preserve maybe not this memory, maybe not this night. But the fact that he came here immediately when she needed him. The fact that he’s here to have dinner with her so all her efforts don’t go to waste. The fact that he’s smiling with her, laughing with her, complimenting her cooking skills with every bite he takes. The fact that he’s here, chasing away the bad thoughts, just for a little while.

He’s here. He came. He cares. Unlike her dad. He doesn’t care.

Tifa takes out some banana pudding for herself, is careful to keep intact as much of his drawing as she can. The edges of her hair get a bit messed up, but that’s all right. Cloud looks at her expectantly.

“Where’s my piece?”

“You don’t like bananas,” she says, and that fact pains her.

“I said I’ll eat it,” he says, and he’s adamant. “For you. I’ll eat it for you.”

For her. For her.

Tifa does not give him his own bowl. Instead, she picks up a bit of the pudding on her spoon, makes sure not to get any banana slices, and brings it to his lips. He takes it, eats it and gives a little hum, and she feeds him as she feeds herself, every other bite. She likes it. It’s sweet, and the bananas add texture and more sweetness but don’t overwhelm the flavor of the custard.

(After she’s finished, Cloud drops a kiss onto the high curve of her cheek, and maybe that’s even sweeter than the custard itself.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

Professor Strife does not leave right after dinner. Tifa’s grateful for this.

By now, it’s well past midnight. They’re sprawled on the couch that’d seen Tifa bawling her eyes out just hours before, watching the cars as they rolled past her windows, sighing as none of them stopped, as her phone stayed silent. But that seems so far away now, like Cloud’s arms are a shield around her, protecting her from all that troubled her. They’d sat at the opposite sides at first. And then they got closer, and closer, and now she’s lying on top of him, and he holds her close, their legs tangled, the wine bottle resting on the coffee table.

He hums at her when she reaches for it.

“No. You had enough at dinner.”

She did  _ not _ . She’s not drunk enough yet.

The cotton of his sweatshirt is soft against her cheek, the hard planes of his chest firm underneath. His fingers are thin and slender as they card through the tangle of her hair, matted from hours and hours of stewing in a hot kitchen. She’d like a shower, but even the thought of it exhausts her. She’s so tired. Drained, like a tube’s down her throat, soaking up all her energy.

They’re watching the  _ Jenova  _ movie adaptation. Tifa wasn't even aware that there was a movie adaptation. But she's watching it, because that’s really all she has the strength to do. Conveniently, it’d been on a channel he flipped to, and when he realized that they’d only missed a few minutes of the movie, he burst in excitement like a firework. 

Cute, Tifa thought. Cute. But his constant, snarky commentary? Not so cute.

“See, that’s wrong.” He points to the screen. “The narrator isn’t supposed to be in the Ancient Forest yet. They skipped a lot of vital scenes.”

He’s a man passionate about literature, after all. And when he watches a movie adaptation of one of his favorite novels, he’s going to pick it apart like a coroner would a corpse.

“I get the constraints of a movie,” he says. “You can’t adapt the  _ entire  _ book. That would take, like, seven hours, and no one wants to watch a seven-hour long movie. Although, if it’s  _ Jenova _ , I totally would.”

Tifa snorts. He’s such a dork.

“But how are you going to cut out such important scenes?” He shakes his head in exasperation, and Tifa feels the motion above her. “And I  _ hate  _ how they characterized Elisheva! It’s not right at all!”

Elisheva? Tifa blinks. She hardly read the book.

“Who was that again?”

“The narrator’s lover,” Professor Strife says. His words are punctuated in a frown she knows is there even if she can’t see it. “Come on, Tifa.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I forgot.”

“Or you didn’t read the book.”

“Perhaps.”

Tifa snuggles into him, presses into him, hopes to distract him from the fact that she didn’t really read the book. Cloud turns his attention to the movie, and Tifa’s half watching, half listening to the drum of his heartbeat, a soothing melody in her ear. She closes her eyes, surrenders to the moment, and she likes this. Being here with him, aimlessly watching a movie after they’d had dinner together. Drenched in comfortable clothes and comfortable silence, enjoying each other’s warmth. Tifa likes it so much, too much, and she clings to him, praying this night never has to end.

But it does. Of course it does.

She opens her eyes, and she sees a man and a woman on screen, very naked and breathing hard. She blinks.

“They had sex?” she asks. “In the novel?”

“Yes, Tifa,” he says, like he’s answering the question of a five-year-old.

“Why don’t I remember that?”

“You didn’t read the book.”

She glares at him. “I read some of it,” she grumbles. “I would have remembered that.”

“It was pretty subtle,” Cloud says. “‘And I stepped through the marshes, through the pounding rain, feeling it pelt the leather of my coat…’” 

Tifa watches him in wonder as he recites the passage. How the fuck does he remember all of this? 

“‘And when at last the beast was felled by my hand, my sword, we stood underneath its bloated, bleeding body and the tree the lightning had struck as it flashed around us, and we were grateful. Later, in the silence of the night around the glow of the campfire under the shadow of the beast, whilst our companions slept, I sought her out and drew her to me … and when the dawn arrived we arose with it, and continued on our journey.’”

Tifa’s lulled by the husked yet gentle honey of his voice, but she’s still a bit confused. Where the fuck in that passage does the narrator have sex with Elisheva? She’s so tired of Sephiroth’s unnecessarily flowery and nuanced writing. Why couldn’t he just say that he stuck his dick in her and went on his way?

“Sex, Tifa,” Cloud says, stroking the nape of her neck with the tips of his fingers. “Have you forgotten? You and I have had a _lot_ of it.”

The words burn red in her cheeks. She’s not that drunk, but she feels the headiness of the wine whisper over her senses. She’s on top of him, close, so close she absorbs the heat and scent of him, and her fingers skitter up the length of his arm, coming to rest at his ear, playing with the silver lion pierced through the lobe.

“Maybe you can refamiliarize me?”

Something dark flashes his eyes, like a cloud that’s blocked out the moon. And then, he leans forward to place a kiss on the very tip of her nose.

“No,” he says. “I’m watching  _ Jenova _ .”

She groans. He’s _so_ annoying .

The clock eventually strikes one. And then two. And the movie is still playing. Is he sure it isn’t seven hours long? Tifa yawns.

“Sleepy?” he asks, his finger swiping away the tear that’d come from the yawn. She hums.

“A little.”

Cloud holds her head up, looks at her, analyzes her face like he would a passage from  _ Jenova _ . 

“Your eyes are all swollen,” he says so softly she barely hears the words. “Were you crying a lot?”

She rests her head back onto his chest, because she _really_ can’t bear to hold his stare.

“No.”

“Tifa.”

“I’m okay.”

No. No, she’s really, really not. And maybe she wants to tell him. About everything. To willingly expose her soul to him so his icy eyes don’t have to. To wear her heart on her sleeve, to cry and cry and not care about who sees. To become vulnerable before him because he’s the only one besides Aerith who’s so, so careful with her feelings.

But she doesn’t. Tifa holds her tongue, bites back the words until they bleed on her throat.

And as she lies here, on top of him, nestled in his arms. She wonders. She wonders what this is. What they are. It feels so intimate. Too intimate. Too domestic with someone who isn’t even supposed to be here. They shouldn’t be doing this. She was supposed to leave him alone. He can get fired. Her greediness can ruin everything for him. She has to stop this.

But she can’t. She can’t. She clings to him and the peace he offers her. The care. The kindness. The pleasant smiles and kisses and touches. She hangs onto him and all that he is so desperately she doesn’t know how to let go.

Maybe it’s love. Maybe.

(Or maybe, she just wants to be free of the sadness for a little while.)

“Can you stay the night?”

His mouth twists into an apologetic frown. “I really shouldn’t.”

She knows he shouldn’t. And she knows she shouldn’t ask again. But she does. She does.

“Please? Just for tonight,” she says. “I promise I’ll leave you alone after this.”

She gets closer, tilts her head a bit to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. She tries to pull back, but he does not let her, holds her by the back of her neck and kisses her deeply, openly, greedily, until her brain is spinning, until she’s aching for breath, but she doesn’t mind it. She aches for him just as much.

“Okay,” he says when he lets go. “I’ll stay.”

Tifa kisses him again, and again, and again, until the white noise of the movie dissolves around her, and it’s just him, the shuffling of their clothing, the gasps and the mewls. She goes manic with it, the taste of his lips, the coldness, the sweetness, the lingering banana pudding and wine. The lash of his tongue against hers, the sinking of his teeth into her bottom lip. And somehow, she ends up under him on the couch, and his hands are sneaking under her shirt, but they don’t go any higher. They don’t go for her breasts, or for the waistband of her pants and panties, or for the wetness that’s gathered between her legs. She feels like she’s choking on ashes, and one more kiss, one more touch will have her ripple into flames.

He suckles soft marks into her neck, and her breath staggers out of her.

“Can you fuck me now?” she asks. “Like the narrator and Elisheva?”

Cloud hums against her throat.

“No,” he says. “You’re going to sleep.”

He gets up and off her, and she very nearly cries. But the fatigue is like lead weights in her eyelids, and by now, it’s nearly three, and they haven’t finished the movie. She woke up early this morning, too early.

To make dinner for a father who never fucking came home.

Cloud hooks an arm underneath her knees, the other under her shoulders. He swoops her up, carries her as if she were his bride, and Tifa wraps her arms around his neck, lets him take her to her bedroom. She hasn’t showered, and she hasn’t brushed her teeth, but the soft velvet of her sheets is so inviting she cannot bear to leave it. So, she lies here, nuzzles into her pillow, and Cloud lingers, settles onto the floor so he’s right next to her, his nose brushing hers as he rests his chin on the bed. She wants to look at him, to drink in all that he is, the prettiness of his features, the pale feathers of his hair. But it gets harder and harder to keep her eyes open.

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Maybe.”

“Cloud,” she whines.

“Tifa, you know I shouldn’t.”

She knows. She knows he shouldn’t. It’d be catastrophic for his career if anyone found out about this. And she’s vulnerable. Sad and vulnerable with her professor in her house. It’s not right. It shouldn’t be like this.

But it is. She wants him to stay.

“Please?”

“Okay,” he relents. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” And she’s so sickeningly hopeful. She can hear it in her voice. She wants him to stay, to be here when she wakes up, to chase away the loneliness just a bit more. And she knows she’s selfish for it. She’s selfish and horrible and she doesn’t deserve him and all his kindness. She knows.

But she doesn’t know what else to do. She’s so sad. And her pieces, they’re all broken. They’re all scattered, and she doesn’t even know how to begin to pick them up. She doesn’t have the strength.

Cloud palms her cheek, comes close to kiss her softly on her forehead.

“Promise.”

And Tifa drifts off into her dreamland, unable to stop the current from taking her away any longer. Her dreams are full of sunny skies and warmth. There’s a beach, sand under her, water around her, the sunlight like liquid gold on her skin. There’s Mom, and she’s laughing. There’s Aerith, and she’s laughing.

There’s Professor Strife, smiling beautifully.

“I just want you to be okay,” he says, and it’s in a whisper, and even though he’s far away from her, she can hear it directly in her ears, like his voice is echoing in her skull. “I want you to be happy, Tifa.”

Happy. Happy.

Tifa opens her eyes. It feels like she has not slept a wink, but when she looks at the clock, it’s nearing sunrise. Cloud is still here, his face in front of her, the colors of it blooming amongst the darkness around it. He’s on her bed now, peacefully snoring away.

And she wonders why it’s now that she realizes it. The whirlwind in her chest, these feelings, bursting within her as if she’s a storm come to life. The warmth. The peace. Everything they are, everything he is to her. Safety. Beauty. Love.

Love. She loves him. There are no maybes, not anymore.

Tifa falls back asleep with only one thought tumbling around her brain.

_ I want to be okay, too. I want to be happy. _

**.**

**.**

**.**

When Tifa wakes, she feels like death.

She slept through most of the night. The first thing that registers in her brain is yellow. Yellow light piercing into her eyes, dying her sight a vicious red, and she curls away from it, wishing she can turn the sun off for a few more hours. But she cannot, because it’s Sunday now. The night she never wanted to end has now ended, and she remains in the clutches of the aftermath, fumbling, struggling.

Her hand darts out, feels around the space next to her. It is empty.

She looks at the right side of the bed. Professor Strife is not here. There’s no evidence to suggest that he even was here; the sheets and blanket are immaculate, the pillow untouched. Tifa only has her memories, how he brought her to the bed, how he sat next to her and then moved to sleep next to her, how he kissed her on the forehead and promised that he would stay.

_ I want you to be happy. _

He promised. He promised he would be here when she woke up. He said he would stay. 

He’s not here.

“Cloud?” she calls out. Maybe he’s in the kitchen, burning eggs again. Maybe he’s in the living room, watching  _ Jenova  _ again. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, washing up. Maybe he’s still here.

Tifa walks around the house. The floors are cold under her bare feet. This morning is chilled, ice in her veins. And the silence is crushing.

There isn’t a single other soul in this house. It’s as empty as it was the day Mom died.

And Tifa wonders why she’s crying. So horribly, her body rattled in it, the tears spilling out, searing hot trails into her cheeks. No matter what she does, she can’t stop. Why is she crying? It wasn’t right for him to stay, and both of them knew that. She knew that well.

But she wanted him to. He promised. He promised he would stay.

And now, she’s alone, with nothing to cling to, nothing to keep the thoughts away.

She grabs her smartphone, dials the number even with the tremble in her fingers. He picks up on the second ring.

“Tifa?”

“Where are you?”

Her voice is hoarse. Guttural as if it’s a demon’s and not her own. She’s breathing hard, and yet, she still feels dizzy, like she’s being strangled, like she’s being drowned, and something is weighing her down. She sinks further and further and further, and she can’t resurface for air.

“I’m really sorry, darling,” he says. “I went home.”

“But you said you’d be here when I woke up.”

He pauses for a moment. “...It wouldn’t have been right for me to stay.”

“But you promised you would stay.” The words are soaring out of her like bullets, and she can’t stop them, can’t stop the tremors in her voice. “So, why didn’t you?!”

She’s yelling. She’s yelling now, the words shredding themselves out of her throat. She can’t stop it. The yelling. The crying. The falling apart. She knows it’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. She doesn’t deserve him. And he doesn’t deserve this, her tears, her sadness, the mess of a girl she is, broken and left behind. He deserves better.

She loves him. So, so much. And she knows he deserves better than her.

“Tifa.” And the way he calls her name, the delicateness of the letters, framed in care, she can’t handle it. She’s heaving, her chest closing, her stomach spinning, like she’s about to crumble from the inside out. “Tifa, please, calm down.”

He doesn’t deserve this. And she doesn’t deserve him.

She deserves to be abandoned. That’s how it’s always been. She doesn’t blame him for leaving.

“Whatever,” she murmurs. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

“Tifaー”

She hangs up the phone before he can manage another word. He keeps calling her. Over and over until her mind feels like it’s vibrating just like her phone. Of course he does. He doesn’t stop, because he cares about her.

He cares about her. But she doesn’t deserve it.

Tifa cries. She cries and cries, and the panic is menacing, traps her within its clutches, and no matter how much she tries to breathe, it gets harder and harder.

It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to be happy. It’s hard to live. Why does living have to be so exhausting?

Tifa goes back to bed, because there’s nothing else she can do.  She’s sinking. Again. She’s drowning. Floundering within these empty, white walls. And she doesn’t know what to do about it. Her dad never came. Aerith is not here. Professor Strife is not here. He broke his promise, just like her dad did. And Tifa doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to even begin picking up the pieces of her.

Maybe she'll never be able to. Maybe she'll always be like this: broken and alone.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u to the wonderful prar for giving me the idea of making them watch the jenova movie adaptation together! and thank u to the lovely maxfieldparrishes for writing that little passage from jenova! she even altered her writing style to match how i described sephiroth's writing! i love it so much akdjakdjks she did such an amazing job <3 (and she also let me use her oc elisheva's name here LMAO) go read [her work](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parrishes/pseuds/parrishes) she's awesome! 
> 
> thanks for reading <3


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